Sentiment
by hedgehogandotter
Summary: Sherlock returns to John a few months after the Reichenbach fall. They soon realise they have feelings for each other and their wonderful friendship is taken to another level. In the meantime, Sherlock goes back to solving cases and is, as always, joined by John...
1. Chapters 1 and 2

**1. One More Miracle**

John was sitting in his chair, staring at the yellow smiley. He remembered when Sherlock shot it once, just because he was bored.  
At the time, John was annoyed by it; now, he would have done anything for Sherlock to come and shoot the wall.  
Everything in 221B reminded him of Sherlock. Practically everything was his.

John didn't know whether he would be able to cope with all those memories.

But he didn't _really_ want to leave, either. It was hard to be there, but it was even harder for him to stay away from it.  
So he just sat there, remembering things he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to remember. Good things, sad things, funny things…  
Then, the door opened. John thought it was Mrs Hudson, the landlady, offering some tea. She had been doing that a lot since Sherlock died. They both needed someone to lean on. It had been hard for both of them.

'Thanks, Mrs Hudson, I really – ' John began, looking up.

But it wasn't Mrs Hudson. The person in the doorway was entirely different; it was a man, a tall man, with a long, dark grey coat, high cheekbones and curly brown hair.

It was Sherlock Holmes.

John wasn't sure whether he was dreaming. But it was definitely Sherlock.

'Hi John.'

John just looked at him, mouth slightly open.

'I should probably explain why I don't appear to be, ah... dead.'

John was still gaping at his friend, whom he believed was dead until he stepped into their apartment like nothing had happened.  
'You see, I was with Moriarty, on the roof of St. Bart's...'

And so Sherlock explained everything. About Moriarty, about the game they played, and finally, about why he jumped and how he survived.

'Snipers were about to – shoot me, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade? How could you be sure, I ...'

'I couldn't be, but you know Moriarty – '

'No, I don't.' John wasn't sure whether he was angry at Sherlock, or glad he was alive. He couldn't quite believe it.

'But I do, obviously. So I had to arrange some things...'

And so Sherlock continued with his story. He seemed glad to finally get it off his chest.

John was overwhelmed. He had so many questions to ask – but Sherlock just answered them before he actually did ask them.  
When he reached the end of his story, Sherlock still stood where he entered the apartment. He hadn't moved since John saw him.

'Just take your damn coat off.'

'Sorry?'

'Well, you live here, don't you?'

Sherlock looked around, a bit confused. He seemed to remember he actually did live in 221B Baker Street.

'You're a bloody idiot, you know that, for having me believe you were dead.'

'I know, I know, I am so sorry, John, please. They'd have shot you – '

John had gotten out of his chair, walked up to Sherlock and gave him a big hug.

'John – '

'Don't ever.. do that to me.. again,' he murmured, pressing his face to Sherlock's chest.  
John let go eventually, but didn't move away. They looked into each other's eyes. Sherlock was frowning, as though he was thinking very hard about something.

Then, Sherlock seemed to make a decision, and John wondered what that expression on his face meant. He had never seen it before, at least not on Sherlock's face...

Sherlock lifted his hand, moved it towards John's face, and John knew what he was about to do, although it seemed unlikely, but he wasn't sure he wanted to go away. Sherlock touched John's chin, tilted it up a bit, not breaking eye-contact, and kissed him, a bit tentatively.

John stood still, not sure what came over him.

It was a short kiss, though neither of them minded looking in the other's eyes a bit longer. They both knew what had just happened.

Finally, John coughed and looked over Sherlock's shoulder, avoiding the wide-open eyes that were still staring at him.  
'So, John, what's for dinner?' His voice sounded a bit hoarse, as though he'd just been choked - John remembered the case "The Blind Banker", when Sherlock had that exact same pitch, and giggled.

Sherlock joined in, and then the two of them were laughing as though they had just stolen an ash tray from Buckingham Palace with only a white sheet for clothing.  
'Risotto,' John answered.

'No.' Sherlock contradicted.

'Why not, I've just – '

'We're out of milk.'

'Again?' John sighed, 'Fine. I'll go to the store and buy some.'

Sherlock smirked as he watched John walk towards the hall to get his coat. The taller man followed his friend and stopped him before he could get any closer to the front door. 'You are not going anywhere,' he said.

'What?' John asked confused, 'How do you mean? You just said we were out of – '

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'We've got company,' he muttered.

'C-c-company? But - '

The doorbell rang. As Sherlock passed John on his way to the door, he smiled at him.

John didn't even bother asking how Sherlock had known someone was about to visit 221B Baker Street, he had gotten used to his friend knowing everything… At all times.

'Mycroft,' Sherlock stated abruptly as he closed the door behind his brother.

'Good to see you Sherlock,' the other Holmes said. 'John,' he added with a polite nod. John raised his eyebrows at Mycroft. 'Did you,' John hesitated, 'know he was alive?'

'Only just found out. A friend of mine saw him enter 221B. Bit of a nasty shock, that was.'

'Nasty?' Sherlock asked insulted. 'Aren't you glad to find your brother alive and well?'

'A bit.' Mycroft smiled, but both Sherlock and John noticed that it was quite forced.

Sherlock glanced at John and muttered something under his breath. John, who didn't hear exactly what he said but could guess the meaning, chuckled.

There was an awkward silence in the living room. John kept looking at Sherlock, who was sitting next to him on the sofa. Every time their gaze met, John quickly looked away, but he couldn't prevent his cheeks from turning slightly red. Sherlock, who had obviously noticed, nervously focused on the floor. Mycroft sat in the chair across the sofa, a frown on his face. He looked remarkably like his brother, just sitting there, staring and thinking.

It was John who eventually broke the silence. 'I could make us some tea if you like,' he said.

Mycroft looked up in surprise. 'Tea?' he muttered, 'Yes, tea would be good. Thank you.'

John got up and walked towards the kitchen. Mycroft coughed. 'Why don't you ask your housekeeper to make us some?' he asked.

Sherlock and John sniggered at the same time. Mycroft snorted. 'What is it?' he asked annoyed.

'She's not our housekeeper,' John and Sherlock said simultaneously.

They looked at each other and didn't even try to keep it in anymore. They burst out laughing.

John, who couldn't remember what he was doing in the kitchen, returned to the living room and sat down next to Sherlock once more.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and bit his lip to prevent himself from saying anything rude.

Sherlock was the first to get himself together, but as he looked at Mycroft he started to chuckle again. John's giggles made everything even worse – they were infectious.

'Sherlock, please!' Mycroft shouted after a while. His face had turned red and he looked furious. His brother ignored him though and John started to laugh even harder.

Sherlock couldn't resist looking at John, who was now roaring with laughter. As he looked at John, he felt his own face flush – something he had never really experienced just by looking at someone – and he joined in, chuckling in his low rumble. It felt so natural, laughing with John. He had noticed something happened to his voice after – what he did. He didn't know why he did it in the first place, something inside him told him to do it. Not something in his head, as it usually did, but his heart this time.

Sherlock had always ignored these kinds of things. Love stories, it was all irrelevant. And it was – just not his own. Not his John.  
Though he didn't quite know yet why he had kissed John, he was glad he did. But he still wasn't sure about himself. What if John didn't... appreciate it? Sherlock had no words to describe it.

He only hoped that John didn't mind.

As it turned out, John did not. He was, of course, confused. He had always kissed girls before, but not his best friend – who was a man – and not really minding it. John didn't know whether he liked it – if 'liked' was the proper word – but he was immensely happy that Sherlock was still alive. It seemed so silly, thinking he was dead. Sherlock always had a plan. They rarely backfired.  
Mycroft was getting more and more annoyed by the minute. He didn't really know what exactly was going on, but he had a feeling something was going on between Sherlock and John – together. It almost seemed like they were... But, it couldn't be.

They were still laughing, and Mycroft just sat there, annoyed. Finally, Sherlock got up and picked up his violin. He started playing, a beautiful melody that could either be sad, or – Mycroft frowned - romantic.

John looked at Sherlock with wide eyes. He had heard him play before, but not with such feeling. He almost felt moved, and soon he was captivated by the song that Sherlock was playing. They couldn't help but stare into each other's eyes, and Mycroft got the sense that his initial feeling might be right.

Sherlock finished with a long, high note and John got up, not fully conscious of what he was doing. He saw Mycroft staring at him, blushed, and sat down again. But he couldn't help walking over to Sherlock anyway and whispering something in his ear.

They both started laughing again, as if nothing had happened. Mycroft was getting more anxious to leave by the minute, almost knowing for sure his suspicion was correct. He noticed that when John walked over to his seat again, their hands brushed.

Sherlock had felt Johns hand brush against his, and it sent a tingle through his arm. He had never felt anything so strongly caused by a touch before.

'Well, I better be off,' Mycroft sighed, as he got out of his chair and picked up his umbrella. He didn't want to admit it, but he was actually glad Sherlock was finally behaving like he should, at his age. Or something like it – there still was an oddness about him.

But John just complemented it perfectly.

They'll be all right together, Mycroft thought.  
Sherlock jumped at the sound of Mycroft's voice. He had been staring at John again, not fully aware of it.

'Of course, Mycroft. Sorry about the tea. You know the way out.' Sherlock coughed. His voice had gone hoarse again. John noticed; he looked at Sherlock with an expression on his face Sherlock couldn't quite place. It was... soft.

John wondered whether this was the first time Sherlock had ever had such physical contact with another person. It was too soon  
thinking about him being the other person.

But, at the sound of Sherlock's hoarse voice, John softened inside. It pleased him to know Sherlock actually had human feelings. Just thinking about Sherlock made him feel hot and his heart started pounding.

Maybe it's the nerves, he told himself.

Sherlock was feeling a similar thing. He was constantly fumbling with his collar, his voice was a tad higher than usual en he seemed restless.

'Should I get that milk now?' John asked, with a bit of tension in his voice. He remembered Sherlock's hand touching his, and the spark that seemed to catch off between them. He had never had that with any girl he'd ever been with.

Sherlock didn't reply immediately, instead he got up and starting pacing around the flat. 'No,' he muttered eventually.

'Oh. Okay,' John replied, not sure of what to do or say next. He looked at Sherlock again. There was no emotion in his face. Not a wrinkle, not a twitch that gave away how he felt. Sherlock had kissed him, John, not the other way around. Surely Sherlock must've felt something for him at that point. But then again, he was Sherlock Holmes, and you never knew what to expect with him. The kiss might as well have been an experiment. 'Jesus,' John muttered under his breath.

John had never been in love before, and he had never realised it, until now. The thought of Sherlock made him nervous and happy at the same time.

'John,' Sherlock began in his normal voice. John looked up and couldn't help blushing again. It wasn't just his eyes, or his face, John now realised that he was also… attracted, to Sherlock's low and almost enchanting voice.

'Get up,' the perfect voice commanded.

'S-sorry?' John stammered.

'Get up!' Sherlock repeated.

John decided there was probably no point in arguing, so he did as he was told.

'I need you to do something for me,' Sherlock explained, 'I need you to look at me.'

Again, John did what Sherlock told him to do. The detective's penetrating eyes probably saw right through John's feelings, but the doctor didn't care, he couldn't even think straight with Sherlock standing so close to him.

'Keep your eyes fixed on me,' Sherlock said as he leaned in.

John vaguely recognised the words, but couldn't tell when and where he had heard them before. Sherlock studied John's face for a second, before lowering his head to the shorter man's and brushed their lips together. He continued the kiss for a few moments and then pulling a hair's breadth away, he murmured, 'Take my pulse and tell me if my eyes are dilated.'

John, who realised what Sherlock was doing, laughed and whispered, 'Are you actually testing this? Are you seriously using _science_ to figure out whether you are…'

'Attracted to you? Possibly even in love with you? Yes, I am.' Sherlock replied.

This was typical for Sherlock Holmes. Use science if you have any doubts.

John looked in Sherlock's eyes, like he was told. They were still less than an inch separated from each other.  
John moved his hand towards Sherlock's. He heard Sherlock take a deep breath, as he himself, put his hand over John's wrist.

John immediately felt the heat of Sherlock's hand, but continued to stare at his vivid – what colour were they, exactly? John couldn't think straight enough to know for sure – eyes, which were staring at him, too, and John got the feeling Sherlock wasn't just testing himself.

Sherlock was curious. He had never been in love, or felt this kind of attraction to someone – this strong. With his right hand, he took John's pulse, which was slightly elevated, but he didn't need John to tell him that his own was, too.

As he looked into John's eyes, he saw that the pupils dilated a bit. He heard John draw in a small breath when his pupils did the same.

Sherlock frowned. So he was in love.

He didn't know much about love, he had always thought of it as a dangerous disadvantage. Caring about things made you more desperate to lose it. And he was sure he never wanted to lose John. Just the thought of it was unbearable.

Not entirely aware of what he was doing, he let go of John's hand and put his arms around him in a warm, gentle embrace.  
'John,' Sherlock began. 'I think I am attracted to you – in love with you…'

John noticed his voice again, his deep, beautiful voice go hoarse once more. It made John smile. Not even Sherlock Holmes stood above these feelings, these natural, _human _feelings.

John had always known Sherlock was human. This was the final proof.  
'You might… I noticed your pulse, your pupils…' John croaked. He coughed. 'Yeah.'  
'I noticed yours, too, John.'

John looked up. His voice was too compelling, and when their gaze met, John immediately felt relaxed. Sherlock had a little smile on his face, the one he always had when John did something foolish, or funny. He never smiled like that to anyone else – if he ever smiled.

'Sherlock, have you ever had an experience like this, before? Ever?'

Sherlock didn't hesitate. 'No.'

'Okay… good.' John seemed at a loss for words. All he knew was that it felt good feeling Sherlock's lips on his, and he didn't mind about him being a man – his best friend at that.

After staring at John for over five minutes, Sherlock bent down once more, took John's head in his hands and kissed him, this time, a longer kiss, now that they both knew what they really felt for each other.

John tried to speak, stupidly, and his words were muffled against Sherlock's mouth. He lost himself in the moment quickly, and pressed his hands to Sherlock's back. He let go however, when Sherlock's phone rang. The consulting detective rolled his eyes, but took the phone out of the pocket in his jacket anyway. He looked annoyed as he pressed the 'cancel call' button.

'What did you just do?' John asked confused, 'That could have been a good case!'

'More interesting things have happened,' Sherlock replied.

'Like what?'

'Like…' Sherlock kissed John again, running a hand through his hair.

'Oh right, interesting things like _that_,' John muttered.

'Stop talking,' Sherlock murmured against the other man's mouth, kissing him with a bit more enthusiasm.

John decided not to argue with his friend this once. Sherlock noticed immediately.

'You did what I said for once,' he whispered, 'I didn't know you were capable.'

John smirked, closed his eyes and was taken up in the action.

Sherlock was now extremely irritated by John's lack of sound and kissed him harder, pulling John tight against him by the waist. John used his surprisingly strong arms to push the taller man back a bit, who now found himself cornered against the wall.

Sherlock's back thudded against it and he swore under his breath. He was officially annoyed with John, who was still evoking sound from him, and therefore winning.

'I hate you, sometimes,' Sherlock mumbled.

John couldn't help but chuckle at this last comment, and it didn't take long before their kiss turned into roars of laughter. It felt good, Sherlock decided, and there was no other way to describe it. He had expected their situation to be very different and awkward now, but it wasn't. It was perfect.

'Milk,' he said eventually, 'Let's go out to buy some milk.'

'You are unbelievable,' the shorter man replied.

Sherlock frowned, 'Unbelievable? Why?'

John rolled his eyes and tried to imitate Mycroft's most disapproving face. He didn't do a terrific job, but Sherlock immediately got the reference and started laughing once more.

Their laughter was rudely interrupted by a second phone call. This time Sherlock did answer, although he seemed frustrated. 'Sherlock Holmes speaking,' John heard his friend say. Sherlock's eyes widened and he frowned again. 'No,' he whispered, 'Tell Anderson we'll be right there.'

'What is it?' John asked as soon as Sherlock hung up.

'Lestrade,' Sherlock replied, 'He's missing.'

**2. The Puppet and the Wine Stain**

They arrived at Scotland Yard only moments later. As they entered the section where Lestrade worked, they were accompanied by Donovan, who greeted them with her usual greeting.

'Freak,' she said almost menacingly. 'Or should I say, _freaks_, now that you got yourself a boyfriend?'  
John giggled nervously. Sherlock coughed but touched John's hand for a moment, too soon for anyone to notice. John flushed at the movement.

As they reached Lestrade's office, Anderson and some other people were waiting for them.

'There you are, we've been waiting for you all day.' Anderson's sneer was no more friendly that Donovan's had been.  
'For your information, Anderson, we came as quickly as we could. You know we live at the other side of London.'

'Okay, then, will you at least explain why you are still alive?' People were already talking among themselves, pointing at the consulting detective.

'Let's just say I did what I had to do to save London. I am a genius, after all,' Sherlock answered sarcastically. John sniggered.  
'We can talk about this later,' Donovan said. 'Right now, our priority is finding Lestrade. I called him this morning, and he didn't pick up the phone. Normally, he is here earlier than he should, but this time he wasn't.'

'Obviously,' Sherlock murmured, rolling his eyes.

Donovan pretended she didn't notice it, but carried on talking with a bit more tension in her voice.

'I sent some officers to his house, and they confirmed he wasn't there. There were some signs of struggle, but no clear indications that there has been a fight. They couldn't figure it out, exactly, so – '

'So they asked for us,' Sherlock finished. He glanced at John, who was standing just an inch closer to him than he normally would have. John liked Sherlock's use of the word "us".

Donovan glared at them, but admitted with gritted teeth that was indeed the situation.

'Well then, there's no need for us to be here, anymore. Let's go to Lestrade's house.' Sherlock turned around, grabbing John's arm as he went and pulled him along.

'I can walk for myself, you know,' John told him, though he actually quite liked Sherlock's warm hand holding his arm. He just wanted to say something, anything.

'I know. I just thought I'd…never mind,' Sherlock rambled, and he let go of John's arm.

'Do you know where Lestrade lives?' John asked, still feeling the urge to keep a conversation going. He was rubbing his arm  
where Sherlock had touched him.

'Yes. I told you I pick-pocket him when he's annoying? I don't just do police identifications, you know…' A grin spread across his face, apparently enjoying the memory.

Seeing Sherlock being all happy like that, John himself started feeling happy as well. It was a hopeful feeling, like a flame, filling up his chest, and his stomach felt like he had missed a step on the stairs – although this time, it was pleasant. Being near Sherlock was nice. Nice; the only word to describe the feeling that had suddenly come over him.

Sherlock felt the same thing, but didn't know what to do with it. He finally understood what all those people meant by having butterflies in your stomach. It wasn't a bad feeling – it was just weird. New.

Suddenly, he felt the urge to touch John, his face, his arms… But this wasn't the proper time. Later, he told himself. When we're back in Baker Street, alone.

* * *

Lestrade's house was far closer to Scotland Yard than theirs. John assumed it must be easier than taking a taxi to work every day.

They walked up the front porch, and John noticed Sherlock's strides getting longer and faster by the second, as though he was excited to visit a crime scene again.

But then again, John recalled, his work was what Sherlock lived for. He had missed it; for months, he got everyone convinced he was dead. John shivered at the thought. He didn't know why, but he got the feeling that if he lost Sherlock, again, this time it would be far more difficult to cope with.

Sherlock paused at the front door, reaching inside his pocket and fishing out his little magnifying glass. He studied the lock and the keyhole for a while, after which he frowned and murmured something to himself. John stood behind him, unsure what to do, exactly, but willing to help Sherlock more than anything.

'The door wasn't forced, so either the kidnapper had a key or Lestrade let them in voluntarily,' Sherlock told John.

'Let's go inside, maybe we will find something there. Donovan did say there were some signs of a struggle,' John suggested.

Sherlock smiled to John, warming them both, and went through the door. 'You're finally learning, John.'

John couldn't have been happier with the compliment, but he wasn't sure whether Sherlock meant it, or just said so to be polite – or something more.

The hallway was full of police officers and all kinds of equipment. Sherlock just strode right through, John on his heels.

The living room was quite open, with windows directly opposite the hallway. The actual sitting area was lowered with about two steps, a dinner table to Sherlock and John's right. Behind it, around the corner and out of Sherlock's sight, was the kitchen.

'Nice,' John said. 'Very nice, indeed.'

'My thoughts exactly,' Sherlock remembered from a long time ago.

John caught the reference and started chuckling. Sherlock gave him a content, caring look. John responded with a smile that made Sherlock's heart pound instantly. He cleared his throat to prevent it from going hoarse again – he knew now what caused it – and walked towards the couch. He needed a place to start.

Meanwhile, John did what he could do by checking Lestrade's notebook and checking his messages on the telephone. He couldn't keep himself from looking at Sherlock every once in a while, and liking what he saw. He had never seen Sherlock in action before while – it still sounded odd – being in love with him.

He did everything with smooth, swift motions, much like his kissing, John noticed with scarlet cheeks.  
Sherlock carried on inspecting, but not even he could completely focus on what he was doing. His glances, however, were a bit more inconspicuous.

The signs of struggle, as Donovan had described them, were no more than a broken vase, knocked over from the edge of the dinner table and some cutlery and plates, spread all over the kitchen floor.

Sherlock wasn't satisfied yet. There must be more, he thought. Then, something caught his eye.

'John,' he said. John responded immediately, and came over to where Sherlock was standing.

'Look at that coffee table,' Sherlock said, pointing at the coffee table that was standing between the sofa and the television. It was closed, meaning there were no "legs", it looked more like a wooden box with a bigger surface.

'It's an ordinary coffee table. What's wrong with – oh, wait a minute…' John hesitated. 'I'm not sure, but it seems like it's been moved. Look, the carpet. Some bits are flatter, which probably indicates that the table stood there previously.'

Sherlock looked at John with such pride in his eyes, John couldn't hide a beaming smile.

'Well, let's find out why it's been moved. It might not be anything of importance, I mean, we've only investigated this part of the house. The kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom, they all have to be investigated as well.'

John nodded. 'Let's look at this, first.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'We don't know what happened to Lestrade, but he could be in serious danger. I suggest we hurry up. You check the other rooms, and I'll take closer look at this table. Alone.'

John knew Sherlock was probably right. There was no point in staring at the coffee table _together_ any longer than necessary, for John would probably not notice anything new anyway. A bit reluctant John left Sherlock to his work and walked back into the hallway.

Greg Lestrade had an extreme obsession with coffee, apparently. The paintings hanging on the walls, mainly pictured coffee cups. Next to that, Lestrade had a wonderful selection of Starbucks wares; napkins, cups and straws filled the windowsills. John was glad to see Greg had finally found his division and then smirked at his own joke. He climbed the stairs that led to a small bedroom.

Sherlock in the meanwhile, still examined the moved coffee table. He noticed several things at the time. There were coffee rings visible, although Lestrade had obviously tried to clean the table multiple times, they hadn't come off. There were a few wine stains on it as well and a couple of scratches, and it immediately became clear to Sherlock that that Lestrade had had a guest last night.

He called for John, but it was Anderson who walked in. 'Found anything yet?' he asked.

'Lestrade had a visitor last night, a woman, probably a date,' Sherlock began.

Anderson interrupted him, 'Greg's married,' he said looking quite smug.

'No, he's recently divorced. Didn't he tell you? Look,' Sherlock pointed at a wooden cupboard, 'that's his wedding ring, right there. If he was cheating on his wife, he would hide if from his date. However, he just left it there, which means that the girl he had with him last night knew about the divorce.'

'How do you even know he was on a date last night?' Anderson asked annoyed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'He doesn't drink wine, does he? His guest obviously did,' he said pointing out the wine stains. Anderson looked confused and asked, 'How do you know his guest was a woman?'

'The marks on the edge of the table, they were created by a pair of high heels,' Sherlock explained impatiently. Before Anderson could ask his next question Sherlock continued. 'I know those marks were from last night because Greg cleans his table every evening,' he pointed at the nearly invisible coffee rings, 'He tries to conceal every scratch ever made as well.'

'How can you tell?'

Sherlock pointed at some older scratch marks that were hardly visible anymore. Anderson didn't even bother to ask how the consulting detective could tell Lestrade cleaned his table _every _evening. 'Okay, Greg had a date last night, so what?'

'Oh for God's sake, Anderson!' Sherlock snorted, 'Like I said he cleans this table _every_ evening. It _means_ something to him. Obviously Greg did not clean the table last night, so that must mean he disappeared then, which means his _date_ had something to do with all this.'

'Why? You've got to admit that it's a possibility that someone came in after his date left and abducted him!'

Sherlock rolled his eyes once more. 'Except for the fact that Greg's date never left.' He gestured to the doorway where John stood, a woman beside him. She was extremely pretty and didn't seem surprised to find Sherlock and Anderson downstairs. She even smiled at them. 'Hello boys,' she said with a voice that sounded remarkably steady, 'I promised Greg I'd wait for you here. He's gone out for a while, you see.' She wore no more than a nightgown and her shiny black hair fell over her shoulders. She reminded Sherlock a bit of Irene Adler.

'He told me you might show up,' the woman said while looking at Anderson, 'But who's your taller friend?'

'He not my-' Anderson muttered but Sherlock interrupted her.

'I'm Mycroft,' he lied, 'Mycroft Holmes.'

A frown crossed the woman's face as if she was confused by his answer. Sherlock figured she might have expected a 'certain Sherlock Holmes' here as well. But, obviously, she wouldn't be able to say so, for that would give her away… Not many people knew he was alive, if this woman had expected him to be here, someone who knew he was alive must've told her.

'Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes,' she said, 'My name's Caroline.'

'Pleasure,' Sherlock muttered, then getting up and told John to come over. John did as he was told, averting his eyes as he walked past Caroline. She made him feel uncomfortable, the way she looked at Sherlock. It was as if she knew who he actually was, and determined to find out why he was still alive.

'John, help me and move this table. I haven't done so, yet, and I don't know whether I would be able to lift it all by myself. I recall you're probably strong enough to help me…'

John remembered from earlier that day, when he had pushed Sherlock against the wall, Sherlock was surprised to find that John had such strength. He felt the inevitable heat rushing to his cheeks for what seemed like the hundredth time that day.  
Together, they lifted the table and were surprised to find that there was actually something beneath it.

'Ah…' Sherlock sighed. 'Of course. I wondered when I would find this.'

On the carpet, there was a little device, and John knew exactly what it was for, although he'd never actually seen one.

'Some people were listening in on their conversation,' John said, looking at Sherlock and trying to figure out whether he knew some more.

Sherlock nodded. 'Yes, I think so… But who are they? Caroline, do you know something about this?'  
She leaned in a bit closer, took one look at the little device and shook her head.

'No, I've never seen it before,' she declared.

Sherlock frowned. She is good, he thought, very good. If she had looked at that device a little longer, and said the same thing, she would have given herself away. But there was no other explanation for her being in Lestrade's house since last night. She had not come back, obviously, because she was still wearing her nightgown.

'Take her in for questioning, while we take a look at this,' Sherlock ordered.

Anderson glared at him, but, deciding it was what Lestrade would do, told the other officers to do what he said.

'John, there is something wrong about her. She doesn't seem to be innocent, but she isn't giving anything away. She is good, very good, and I don't expect the questioning to give us any answers. But we have to try. Now, let's see what _this _thing is all about…'

Sherlock examined the little device, then coming to a conclusion, put it in his pocket.

'That's evidence, Sherlock, you can't just – ' John began, though he wasn't really angry.

'We can only listen to what they said on my laptop. It has a special port that I know none of the computers in Scotland Yard have – at least not the ones we're authorized to use.'

Sherlock continued investigating the rest of the house, but, not seeing anything of importance, other than Lestrade having a serious problem concerning coffee, he turned to leave.

'Let's go, John, and find out what she wanted Lestrade to tell her.'

'Hang on, what _she _– ' John started to ask.

'Yes, obviously, why else was she there? She can be as innocent as she wants to be, but there must have been reason for her to be in Lestrade's house.'

'But if she took him, then we've already figured all this out, we don't need to listen to what they recorded.' John was trying to keep up with Sherlock's thoughts.

'No, no, she's only the puppet. The real question is… who is the master?'


	2. Chapters 3 and 4

**3. The Recording Device **

The duo returned to their apartment in Baker Street. It had been a long, confusing day for both of them.  
Sherlock was busy with his coat, but John could see that something bothered him.

'Is there something wrong, Sherlock?' he asked, not wanting Sherlock to be upset by anything. 'We will find Lestrade, I'm sure – '

'John, is wanting to touch the one you love part of… being in love?' he suddenly asked.

'I… what?' John stammered.

'Today, at the police station, I had the strange urge to touch you. I don't know where it came from, but it wouldn't go away.'

Sherlock seemed at a loss for what to do.

John understood, and walked up to Sherlock. He seemed really vulnerable, for once, not knowing what to do.  
'It is, Sherlock. And guess what? I had that feeling, too. It's not particularly bad, is it?'

'No, it's not.'

Sherlock looked into John's eyes, and John looked back. They didn't hide anything anymore. Their love was now quite obvious.  
Sherlock felt the tingling sensation again, of wanting to touch John. So he did. He felt his face, his shoulders.

John smiled encouragingly. This was one thing Sherlock didn't have any experience with.  
Sherlock hesitated only one moment before leaning in and kissing John again. Their lips only touched slightly, as if Sherlock was unsure of how to do it properly. Then, as he felt John giving in completely, he relaxed, too. He pressed his lips on John's a bit more urgent, putting his right hand on the back of John's head, and the left near his jaw. Why had he never done this before? Why had he missed out on things like this for all his life?

The answer came to him almost immediately. Because he hadn't known John before. As Sherlock realised this, he gave himself up to John entirely. He pulled back slightly, just to breathe, but John, apparently, didn't want him to. Because he was shorter than Sherlock, he couldn't reach his head without looking stupid, so he just held his back. The feel of the small of Sherlock's back was already becoming familiar, like it was made for his hands, and his hands only.

Sherlock felt immensely happy at that point. John was there, beside him, kissing him, after all these months without seeing him. He smiled and started to chuckle, though John's mouth was still pressed to his, and only a muffled sound came out.  
When they finally parted, they didn't move away from each other. They still stood where they had entered the apartment, looking into each other's eyes, both entirely captivated by the other. Nothing seemed to exist but them.

'We have to take a look at that recording device,' John whispered, though he didn't want to move. He could've stood there all night, his hands on Sherlock's back, staring into those blue greenish eyes that were so compelling.

'I know,' Sherlock replied in his hoarse voice. Neither of them moved.

'Sherlock, I am so… I don't even have words for it. I am glad, more than glad, that you aren't… dead. I'm so happy I have you, here, and though it all happened so fast since earlier today, it couldn't have been more perfect.' John said this all in one breath, as if he'd rather get it over with as quickly as possible.

'John…' Sherlock's voice actually broke. 'I am, too. I have never felt anything like this for anyone else before, but I'm glad I have it right now, with you. Why did it take me faking my own death to realise it?'

'I don't know, but now, I'm actually grateful for it. Without it, we would probably never had this – this… relationship, this connection.'

Sherlock smiled. 'So this is what this is. A relationship.'

John looked at his feet. 'Well, if you don't want it to…' He was trying to hide how he felt about the possibility that Sherlock might not want to be in a relationship.

'What are you saying, John? I have just… kissed you, and you're thinking I don't want a relationship?' Sherlock chuckled for real now, hugging John and resting his head on John's hair.

'You're my John. Don't think that, even for one second, I don't want to be in a relationship with you.' Sherlock looked at John with a worried look on his face and John could tell he meant what he said. The doctor felt incredibly happy and smiled at his… boyfriend? It sounded weird in his head, but it felt right. It felt _so _right.

He ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and whispered, 'We have to start working on this case.'

Sherlock nodded and quickly pressed his lips against John's forehead before walking into the living room. John noticed a slight spring in his step, he was glad to see Sherlock all excited about his case, even though it meant Lestrade was in possible danger. The consulting detective took the recording device out of his pocket and to John's surprise he simply put it in one of the drawers of his desk. 'We'll listen to it later,' he explained. 'Come on!'

The taller man, still wearing his coat, turned around and shot John a cheerful look. John hurried after him as he left the flat. Sherlock walked faster than he did, and John had trouble keeping up with him. 'Sherlock, where are we going?' he asked, but the detective didn't answer him. Instead he called out 'TAXI!' as a black cab passed by. It pulled over right away. 'Scotland Yard,' Sherlock told the cabbie as he got in the car. John hesitated for a few seconds but sat down next to Sherlock anyway.

'Why are we going to Scotland Yard?' John asked his friend. John hated it when Sherlock knew something, or had an idea, and didn't tell him. Sherlock still kept his mouth shut, and looked out the window. John knew that he was thinking about something that had to do with the case. John sighed and looked away from Sherlock. They drove past the Houses of Parliament without saying anything. John's thoughts drifted off again. The man sitting next to him so quietly made him feel warm inside. Even when Sherlock didn't say anything at all, he was still so present. John wished he wouldn't be ignored, though. All of a sudden he felt Sherlock's warm breath in his neck. The doctor turned his head and faced the most beautiful eyes in the world. 'I can't think straight,' Sherlock whispered, 'Not with you sitting next to me.'

Before John knew what was happening Sherlock's lips touched his again. The warm feeling of Sherlock's skin spread through his entire body and John chuckled. 'You can't just…' he muttered.

'Yes I can.'

'We are in a cab!'

Sherlock pulled away and opened his eyes. 'I know,' he replied with a grin on his face. John felt his cheeks turn red again, and let out a nervous giggle. The cabbie coughed and said briskly; 'Here we are sir, Scotland Yard.'

'What are we doing here, Sherlock? Seriously, what?' John asked him as they walked through the long halls of Scotland Yard.

'We're here to see Caroline,' Sherlock finally explained, 'She obviously has something to do with all this. I'd like to know what.'

John, still rushing after his friend, didn't understand. 'And what is she going to tell us, Sherlock? You said so yourself; the questioning isn't going to give us any answers!'

'You never know,' Sherlock replied, 'She may be a born liar, but liar's make mistakes as well. She'll tell us _something_.'

'Why can't anyone else interview her?'

'Because they won't notice her mistakes, obviously.'

'Hmm…' John just sighed. He had to admit, Sherlock was probably the only one in the world who actually would notice them.

'So, Caroline, you were in detective inspector Greg Lestrade's house.'

Sherlock and John sat opposite Caroline, who was now wearing simple business clothing. She sat leaning backwards, seemingly comfortable and relaxed.

Sherlock studied her with his sharp eyes. He didn't like not being able to deduce just by looking at someone. Her looks told him nothing, nothing special.

Hair, make up, clothing, all perfect, but wasn't that the case with most young women these days?

'I was. Your friend caught me in his bedroom. I can't deny that,' she said coolly.  
John frowned. He had found her in Lestrade's bed, just staring at the wall, as if she was waiting for them to show up.

'Do you confirm you had a – ah… _romantic _date with him?' Sherlock wanted to know.  
John knew Sherlock already knew these things, but wanted an answer from her. He paid close attention to her, as well, to try and observe what Sherlock always observed.

'I can't say it was romantic,' she stated with a smile. 'I met him in a Starbucks shop, and we seemed to get along well, so I asked whether he had anything to do that evening.'

Sherlock waited for her to say more, but apparently she wasn't about to.

'So that evening, you went to Lestrade's house, after exchanging mobile phone numbers and addresses, or, more likely, one address, and you brought wine with you.'

Caroline kept her face steady, although Sherlock thought he saw her mouth twitch. 'What makes you think I brought wine with me?'

'Because Lestrade doesn't drink wine, and we found wine stains on the coffee table, the same table under which we found the recording device you couldn't identify. I found that very interesting, because you seemed to study it a bit too long for my liking. So I'll ask you again: do you know anything about Lestrade's disappearance?'

The whole time, Sherlock hadn't taken his eyes off Caroline. John hadn't seen him blink, either. He hardly blinked when they looked in each other's eyes, John recalled, but that was a nice stare. The look on Sherlock's face as he stared at Caroline was nowhere near nice – it was ice cold.

'I don't know any more than you do.' Caroline sighed. 'Three men came in, knocked him out and dragged him away.'

That's no motive, Sherlock thought. She must be holding something back. Suddenly, his eyes went wide open. Three men?

'Thank you, Caroline, we're done for today. I trust we can speak to you whenever we like?'

'Of course, Mr Holmes, any time,' Caroline said, smiling insincerely.

'Come, John,' Sherlock as he got up from his chair. John did as he was told, he didn't want to be a second longer in that room with  
Caroline. She unnerved him, set his teeth on edge.

'What was that all about?' John asked as they walked through the long hallways of Scotland Yard once more. 'We were only in there for about five minutes, how could you have - '

'Houston, we have a mistake,' Sherlock announced, almost knocking the door out of its hinges when he threw it open. 'I knew she would,' he muttered softly to himself. 'They always make mistakes, overestimate themselves, _underestimate _me…'

'A mistake?' John called out to Sherlock. Sherlock hadn't realised he had walked so fast; John was a few steps behind.

'A mistake?' John repeated as he ran up to Sherlock when he paused for a moment.

'Do you remember what she said, exactly? Think, John.' Sherlock put his hands on John's shoulders, staring at him again with his penetrating look.

'Sherlock, we're outside, there's people around us – ' John began, looking around nervously.

'I'm not kissing you, am I?' Sherlock demanded. 'Now think! What mistake did she make?'

'I don't know, she said that Lestrade was taken… taken away by… three men…' Realisation hit John as he spoke. 'Three men! How did she know? This is proof! Sherlock, we've got to get back, tell Donovan and Anderson…'

Sherlock snorted. 'They won't believe us. Besides, it's not proof – yet. It might mean Caroline is "innocent", or as innocent as she will ever be, got away when those men entered the house and hid in the bedroom. It might mean she was indeed involved in Lestrade's abduction, that she held him where he was, extracting information from him, until the men arrived.'

'Then we have to figure out what kind of information.' John still felt uncomfortable with Sherlock holding him like that out in the open, but at the same time, loved how warm his hands were, the force with which they grabbed his shoulders. He could hardly keep himself from shivering delightedly.

Then, Sherlock let go. He raised up to his full height, after bending over to get hold of John's shoulders. It was impressive.  
'Then we will,' he said with a grin on his face, turning towards the street and signalling a cab, with his magnificent voice booming: 'TAXI!'

* * *

'It's late.'

'I know.'

Sherlock and John sat on the sofa together, sort of snuggling, but not quite. They were both tired. That day, John found his best friend still alive, they both realised they were more than friends, and one of their friends had gone missing. They had gone to Scotland Yard twice already, and on top of that, visited Lestrade's house, where they found a little device and a mysterious woman.

John started to get up, but Sherlock pulled him down, keeping him tight, next to him. John laughed.  
'I was only going to get your laptop and the recording device,' he teased. Sherlock made a face.

'Be quick. I'm cold, and you're warm.'

John's heart seemed to leap. He liked Sherlock like this, making sweet comments. It was different, but not less perfect. If anything, it was even more perfect.

John hurried back to Sherlock's inviting open arms, grabbing his long coat as he went.

'I'm cold, too,' he said as he put the makeshift blanket over both of them. He settled down and put his head on Sherlock's shoulder, almost drifting off before remembering the laptop next to him. He picked it up and pressed the 'on' button.  
As they waited for the laptop to start, Sherlock put his hand on John's hair and started stroking it, just to do something with his hands. He knew it gave John goose bumps – his eyes never missed anything – but he particularly enjoyed that part, of being able to get a response from him in the first place.

'Give it to me,' he said as the screen finally stopped loading. It was not a slow laptop, though they both wished at that moment that it was.  
Keeping his left hand near John's face, he was able to connect the little device to his laptop, selecting everything with one hand.

John snuggled closer, with the excuse of being able to see the screen a bit better, but Sherlock obviously knew they were going to listen anyway, but he didn't mind. He meant it when he said John was warm. Not only his body, but his presence, as well.

'You ready?' Sherlock asked, glancing at the top of John's head that was resting on his chest.

'Hmmm…' was John's only answer. He was far more interested in other things at the moment, but still curious about the little machine. What was it that was so important to Caroline – if their suspicion was true?

Sherlock clicked the 'play' button and leaned back, nonchalantly resting his head on John's, which now rested partly on Sherlock's shoulder, and partly on the sofa.

John took a deep breath when he felt the soft, dark brown curls touching his right temple, but pretended not to be affected by it.  
They both jumped at the sound of a doorbell ringing – they were so caught up within each other. John looked angrily at the door, started to get up, but Sherlock pulled him down once more.

'It's been recorded,' he whispered, pointing at the laptop. 'The doorbell was Lestrade's, so the device must have been placed earlier.'

John felt a bit foolish, but immediately forgot about it when he felt Sherlock's expectant breathing very close to his face.  
There were some muffled sounds coming from the laptop, because Lestrade and Caroline were still in the hallway. Their voices grew louder and louder as they got closer to the living room.

John stole a glance at Sherlock again, wanting to see his face, trying to put pieces together already. He was indeed frowning, trying to hear what they said, but it wasn't close enough to the recorder yet.

John smiled to himself at the sight of Sherlock's concentrated face, but turned his attention back to the laptop.

'Nice house,' they heard Caroline say. 'I must say I didn't expect anything like this when I met you this morning. Where can I leave my bag?'

'You can put it on the coffee table, if you like. Do you want something to drink?' It was obviously Lestrade's voice. They heard footsteps, and Lestrade's voice grew weaker once more, but not impossible to hear.

'Kitchen,' Sherlock whispered.

'What?' John rambled, distracted by Sherlock's breath blowing past his ear.

'Lestrade's in the kitchen. The footsteps, it was definitely on a tiled floor.' Sherlock obviously hadn't realised what reaction he just got from John.

'What do you want to drink?' they heard Lestrade call from the kitchen.

'I've got my own wine, would you like some?' Caroline replied.

'I don't drink wine. You can have it, if you want. I do have some wine glasses,' Lestrade told her.

'You don't drink wine, but you _do _have wine glasses?' Caroline laughed. It was a charming laugh, and John would probably have felt attracted to it – but that was before he felt attracted to Sherlock, whose laugh was far more pleasant.

'My ex-wife used to drink wine.' Lestrade entered the living room again. They heard a _pling _and they knew he brought a wine glass.

'She never drank from it,' Sherlock murmured. He hit the 'pause' button and shifted his position a bit, so he could look at John.

'How do you know that?' John asked.

'The wine stain, on the coffee table, it was red enough and big enough for a full glass. I think there might have been some kind of poison in there, otherwise, she would have drank from it, don't you think? We need to get back to Lestrade's house…' Sherlock was talking fast.

'Let's finish this recording first, Sherlock, then we can decide whether we'll go back to the other side of London for the third time this day. The coffee table won't run away.'

Sherlock looked at John with big eyes, trying to convince him, then finally, admitting John made sense, kissed him on the cheek, whispering softly in his ear. 'You are finally learning, doctor.'

John flushed immediately, grinned with delight, and turned to look at Sherlock's face, his gaze all focused on him. Sherlock was breathing rather heavily, his right hand floating in mid-air, trying to keep himself from touching John's cheek. Didn't they have something to do…?

John extended his arm and got hold of Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock jerked back a little, startled by the little shock John still gave him when he touched him.

John took Sherlock's hand and put his right hand on Sherlock's neck. Because they were sitting on the sofa, he wasn't that much shorter, and he could reach Sherlock's soft curls with ease.

John pulled Sherlock closer to him, who was breathing heavier and heavier, but he didn't seem nervous, he seemed almost – hopeful. Eager.

Their noses touched before their lips did. Sherlock tilted his head a little to the right, so their kiss would not be interrupted by another part of their faces.  
Sherlock jerked his hand out of John's, and placed it on his cheek instead. They lost themselves in the moment completely, not knowing how much time passed by, not caring to know how long they sat there, holding each other, snuggled up together under Sherlock's warm coat.

As they progressed, Sherlock became a little too enthusiastic and accidentally pushed John on his back. Because he was practically leaning on him, he fell with him, too, and soon, they were laughing again.  
John felt Sherlock's chest go up and down with every breath he took, and he wished the moment would never end.  
'I think we knocked the laptop on the floor,' John said, while Sherlock muttered: 'my laptop's fallen.'  
They looked at each other and started laughing again. Sherlock took a deep breath and got up, reaching for his laptop.

The computer still seemed to be in a fine condition, and Sherlock put it back on his lap. John snuggled closer to him and gave him a quick kiss before resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder once more. Sherlock put his arm around his friend and pressed 'play'.

Sherlock and John heard Caroline laugh again. Lestrade told her his, according to Sherlock, boring divorce story. Caroline laughed at every joke, no matter how dull or inappropriate they were.

'She plays her part really well,' Sherlock noted, completely fascinated by the conversation. He hugged John a little tighter, not entirely unaware of how much John was pleased by this.

'I'm sorry,' they heard Caroline say, 'Do you mind?'

There was a loud thud and they heard Greg chuckle. Sherlock and John had never heard him made such a nervous sound.

'She just put her feet on the coffee table,' John said, not completely sure of himself. Sherlock didn't answer him, but the smile on his face told John that he was right.

Their conversation continued, but neither John nor Sherlock noticed anything interesting enough. Suddenly the doorbell rang for a second time. They heard Lestrade get up and walk towards the front door.

'This is it! This is it!' Sherlock muttered excited.

They heard Greg open the door. 'Good evening, gentlemen. Can I help you?'

No one answered him. Instead John and Sherlock heard Greg grunt in the distance and yell something similar to 'Jesus, let me go!'

His call for help was answered by Caroline's high heels who clearly walked towards the scene. The sounds came closer now, as if the men at the door dragged a struggling Lestrade back into his living room.

'Well, well, Mr Lestrade,' Caroline's voice said, 'Those scratches look good on you. Makes you look a bit tougher.'

'What's this all about?' Lestrade asked. His voice had gone all high and squeaky, it was clear that he was afraid.

'This is all about a certain Sherlock Holmes,' a man's voice replied.

'Sherlock Holmes is dead!' Lestrade called out, definitely panicking now.

'Or so you believe,' another man said.

'No, no, he's dead!' Greg repeated.

'Shut up!' A third man yelled. His order was followed by a low thud and moans of pain coming from Lestrade's mouth.

'Let's get him out of he – ' the second man never got the chance to finish his sentence.

'Silence!' The first man said, trying to keep his voice down, 'Someone's coming! Come on, quickly!'

This time the second man spoke again; 'Wait, we have to get the recording devi – '

'There's no time,' the first man said, 'Hurry!'

Sherlock and John heard the three men stumble out of the living room, dragging something along the carpet.

'Greg's been knocked out. They're dragging his body away,' Sherlock muttered.

The duo heard Lestrade's front door close and for a few moments everything remained quiet. Then, they heard footsteps coming into Greg's living room. The stranger simply walked around, there were no sounds that indicated that he did anything else.

Sherlock pressed the 'pause' button for a second time. 'I've heard enough,' he said.

'How do you mean?' John asked, 'What do you know? Where did they take him? Poor Greg…'

Sherlock all of a sudden jumped up, a move that nearly made John fall of the couch because he'd been leaning on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock started pacing the flat and started talking faster than ever before. John had to listen extra hard to understand what he was saying.

'Like I said before, Caroline was only the puppet. And so were those three men. They were sent to Greg's house to fetch him. Why? Because of me. The 'master' knew that I was alive, and they knew that, by abducting Greg, I would show myself. It is no longer a secret that I am not dead. The papers will probably be full of the 'news' tomorrow. The question is, who knew that I wasn't dead?'

'You didn't tell me anything we couldn't have known without listening to the fragment,' John said, knowing that Sherlock probably wasn't finished.

'Caroline!' Sherlock exclaimed, 'She was still in the house when we arrived this morning, however we just heard her leave alongside the three men. I bet that if we would listen any longer, she'd come back.'

'And who's the person they ran away from?'

'Good question John. The man in the house, was – '

'A man? How can you be sure it was a man?'

'Remember this morning when Caroline said that '_he _told her we might show up'?'

Sherlock walked back to John and sat down on the sofa again. He hit the 'play' button on the laptop and the fragment continued.

It took a few minutes before the doorbell rang. The stranger walked away and came back only seconds later, followed by the sounds of high heels.

'They are so thick,' they heard Caroline say as the followed the man back into the living room.

'No thicker than you are,' a cold voice replied.

'At least I came back. I realised it was _you_ we heard.'

'I needed you to come back anyway. You have to stay here until morning.'

'What? Why?' Caroline all of a sudden sounded afraid.

'He will come next morning; Sherlock Holmes,' the unknown voice answered, 'He won't be alone. He will bring his loyal doctor Watson and possibly a few police men. Anderson, Donovan, Jones…' The man described all the people he mentioned. 'I need you to wait here.'

'Why?' Caroline asked again.

'Because I say so!'

The man with the cold voice walked away and the front door closed behind him. Caroline was alone. Sherlock and John heard her sigh, and she too left the living room and went upstairs.

'There you go,' Sherlock said, 'Exactly what I expected.'

'This man, sounded like her boss. Do you think he's our villain?' John asked curiously.

'No, of course not. The villain isn't in the picture, yet.'

'How do you know?'

'This device was left behind for some reason. Someone else was meant to listen to the recording later today. _That_ person is our villain.'

John looked at the clock that hang on the wall above Sherlock's desk. Half past two. 'God,' he moaned as fatigue settled over him like a lead weight. His head hurt and he couldn't take all the information in at once. 'Sherlock, I'm so …'

'Tired. Yes, John, me too. We'll continue tomorrow morning,' Sherlock said as he put his laptop away. He smiled a weak smile as if he meant to say everything would be okay. 'Come here,' he whispered and John snuggled even closer. Sherlock hugged his friend tight against him and rested his own head on his friend's hair. He felt John's warm breath in his neck and got goose bumps all over his arms. Sherlock kissed John on the head and John muttered something Sherlock didn't quite catch. It didn't matter what the doctor said though, for it had sounded satisfied.

They sat there for what seemed like hours when Sherlock eventually heard soft snores coming from John. He smiled and closed his own eyes.

**4. Suspicions **

John woke up to the sound of Sherlock playing the violin. It wasn't the same melody as the one he'd played the day before. This one was cheerful and much faster, a melody different from any Sherlock had ever composed. John found that he was still on the sofa, Sherlock's coat wrapped around him.

He got up quickly, but, remembering everything from the night before, closed his eyes again. There was so much information, just from a recording device.

'Ah, you're awake,' Sherlock noticed, and he stopped playing immediately. He smiled, looking at his coat which John had slept in.

'Sorry,' John mumbled. 'I must have been really tired.'

'You were,' Sherlock whispered, remembering the evening before, when John had started snoring in his arms. In _his _arms. Sherlock couldn't quite believe it, yet, that he and John were together. Really together, now.

'You're composing again?' John asked as he put Sherlock's coat where it usually was. He walked over to the kitchen to make himself some breakfast, but Sherlock blocked his way.

'Yes,' he answered softly, his beautiful eyes gleaming. 'I've got some inspiration, thanks to recent events.'  
John frowned. 'You compose a happy song because Lestrade's gone missing?'

Sherlock chuckled. 'No, you idiot, because of this…'

He took a step closer to John, put an arm around his neck, pulled him tighter to his body, brought his face closer to John's. With his eyes almost closed, he whispered, 'You can be so ignorant sometimes…'

Their faces were less than an inch apart, and John could feel Sherlock's heavy breathing against his skin. It left a pleasant tingle.  
Smiling, John put his arms around Sherlock's back, again, feeling defining features of his body.

Feeling John's hands on his back, he pressed himself even tighter to John, giving in to his feelings. After a deep, content sigh, he pressed his lips to John's, grabbing him a bit tighter. His lips parted slightly, and John could feel that his breathing went faster and faster.

'Any news on the case?' John murmured before kissing Sherlock again, trying to reach the back of his head.

'Perhaps if I hadn't been staring at you, on the sofa underneath my coat all morning. I couldn't take my eyes off you,' Sherlock muttered back, running a hand through John's hair.

They rested for a while, foreheads pressed together, eyes closed, in each other's arms. They both grinned, delighted with the other.

'So the 'master', as you call him, wants information on how you survived…' John couldn't help feeling a bit protective of Sherlock, pulling him as close him as possible.

Sherlock nodded. 'But, who is he? How does he know I survived? No one knows but you and Mycroft, and now, obviously, the entire police station… I haven't even told Mrs Hudson yet…'

John's eyes flew open. 'Mrs Hudson!' he whispered.

Just then, the door went open, and they heard Mrs Hudson stop talking in the middle of a sentence, gasping, and they turned to  
look.

She was staring at Sherlock, holding John, then, with an almost comical 'O, dear', she fainted.

Sherlock foresaw it, and was there just before she hit the ground. 'John, you have to help me get her up on the sofa. I think I was a bit of a nasty shock for her.'

'Quoting Mycroft, now, are we?' John sniggered, as he came forward and helped Mrs Hudson on the sofa.  
John went to the kitchen to finally get that breakfast going, and to make Mrs Hudson some calming tea, as Sherlock sat on his favourite chair, staring into space.

'What should I tell her?' Sherlock wondered.

'She doesn't know anything about Moriarty, does she? You can't tell her what happened on that roof.'  
Sherlock shook his head. 'I guess I just have to tell her what I told Anderson and friends…'  
John nodded.

Mrs Hudson was coming around. John looked at her worriedly, but, with his doctor's eye, seeing there was nothing wrong with her.

'Oh, John! I just had the weirdest dream… Sherlock was alive – ' Mrs Hudson tried to get up, but John pushed her down again.

'Easy, Mrs Hudson. And, erm… I don't think it was a dream…' he nodded to his left, to where Sherlock sat, playing with the strings of his violin.

Mrs Hudson gasped. 'What – how…?' she asked, confused.

'I should explain. Forgive me, Mrs Hudson, but I had to convince you – and John, and the entire world – I was dead. The fate of London, and perhaps all of Britain, depended on it. I have a lot of enemies, you see, none of them powerless…'

'You always seem to surprise me, Sherlock. I wasn't really _that _surprised you're still alive, but I saw you two – if I recall properly – together, ahm…' Mrs Hudson was never really embarrassed about what she said, but couldn't quite find the words for it this time.

John blushed. Sherlock knew he would, and he looked at John because he loved his cheeks turning pink every time he was embarrassed.

'It's fine, Mrs Hudson. John and I are…' Sherlock, too, was at a loss for words. But Mrs Hudson just nodded.

'You must know, it has crossed my mind before. Do you remember I told you we had another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two?' Mrs Hudson was rambling again, in that characteristic way of hers. John smiled, even though he still felt a little uncomfortable.

'We still use two bedrooms,' he defended himself. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Have you heard about Lestrade?' John changed the subject as fast as possible, and Sherlock couldn't suppress a chuckle.

'No, what about him?' Mrs Hudson's caring, motherly side was immediately visible.

'He's missing,' John explained. He told Mrs Hudson about the case and the progress they had made so far.

'Dear, that is terrible,' Mrs Hudson sighed. 'At least we've got the best consulting detective and the best doctor in London on it.'

Sherlock grinned. He had missed Mrs Hudson almost as much as he had missed John, but for totally different reasons, of course.

'Are you feeling better?' John asked, concerned. Mrs Hudson nodded, staggering a bit when she got up, but walked with steady steps toward the kitchen, getting some more tea.

John took the chance to look at Sherlock once more, who was staring at his feet, or so it seemed to John.

Sherlock was trying to put all the pieces together, but there were a few missing. At least we now have proof to keep Caroline locked up, he thought. She was definitely in on the abduction. And there had been at least 5 men in on it, too. The three men who knocked out Lestrade, the stranger that came in afterwards and told Caroline to go to the bedroom, and the master. But who were the last two? And was the master supposed to collect the device for himself? Why didn't the stranger do it, in the first place? The master probably didn't want anyone to mess with it, he thought.

The master… Who was he? He probably trusts no one but himself, he has a lot of power, and wants information on me. He has done things like this before, and he knows Lestrade is connected to me in some way.

Who could that be?

Sherlock's eyes went wide-open. It couldn't be. He shot himself, he was dead. Sherlock saw it, himself, and his senses never lied to him.

It all fits, he said to himself. He has done this before – keeping as much distance between the victims and even his "business partners".

I'll think about this later, Sherlock thought. I need time to get my head around this case – I do actually care about Lestrade. Caring won't help him. Not immediately.

John noticed Sherlock's distress. He decided not to ask him about it, for that would only make him an unbearable roommate, John remembered from previous mistakes he'd made. I wonder whether he would become an unbearable… boyfriend… as well, John thought.

Mrs Hudson left the two alone, knowing they were still in the beginning of their relationship, and not wanting to disturb them. She smiled to herself; she had known it from the first time she saw them together.

'John… there is something that bothers me, about the master.' Sherlock was fumbling with his violin, looking nervous.

'What is it?' John asked, immediately sensing something was very wrong. Concerned, he got up and walked towards Sherlock, kneeling slightly, so they were at the same eye level.

'I've been thinking.'

'Of course you have,' John said. He touched Sherlock's hand lightly, to stop him from possibly ruining his violin. Sherlock took a deep breath and took John's hand.

'The master, his way of action. It's… familiar. I think I know him,' Sherlock said. 'But it's only a suspicion, I cannot tell for sure.'

'Well, that's great, isn't it? I didn't think we'd be able to solve this case so fast, but I should've known you were too eager to –'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Moriarty,' he whispered.

John stared at him, shocked.

'No, he's dead, Moriarty's dead, he shot himself, you said you saw it –' John clasped both Sherlock's hands. It couldn't be, it was impossible…

'I did see it. But I didn't check for a bullet hole through the back of his head,' Sherlock snapped irritably.

'Of course you didn't…' John shivered at the thought.  
Sherlock's expression softened again. He could tell John was afraid.

'Look, John, it is only a suspicion, I may not be right, but we must entertain the possibility that I am.' Sherlock took a deep breath. He didn't want to admit it, but he was just as scared as John. The fact that Moriarty might still be alive… He shuddered.

John was scared himself, but he wanted to comfort Sherlock. It was his arch enemy. He faked his own death in order to stop him, and it might not have worked.

John took Sherlock's face in his hands, staring in his vivid blue green eyes, which only contained a hint of fear, but John knew how Sherlock normally looked. This wasn't normal.

'I want you to listen to me, Sherlock. I want you to look in my eyes and believe what I say to you.'  
Sherlock looked at him. He lifted his own hands to grab John's wrists, but made no move to remove them from his cheeks.

'We don't know whether this is really all Moriarty's doing, but if it is, I am not going to leave you. I will support you, I will have your back. I will do anything for you, I am not going to lose you again.' John hesitated only a moment before saying his next words. 'I love you, Sherlock.'

'John, I…' Sherlock smiled. 'I love you, too, I think. I've never loved anyone like that, so I'm not sure, but I think I love you.' He frowned, thinking about the other words John had said. Somehow, they had made him feel less scared about Moriarty.

'I know you won't leave me.' He stood up from the chair, put his arms around John and closed his eyes. 'But thanks anyway.'  
He pulled back a little, gave John a small kiss and let go.

'We can't be sure who the master is if we don't work on this case,' he said. 'We're going to Lestrade's house, first, to get that wine sample and Caroline's bag. Then, we will –'

'Hang on, Caroline's bag? Who said anything about a bag?' John interrupted.

'She did. "Where can I put my bag"? It's what she asked Lestrade on the recording. It might still be there, for I saw no bag with her when we took her to the police station. Which brings me to my second point; if we find anything in that wine, or her bag, we have double proof she is part of all this. We will go to Scotland Yard and talk to her.'

'Again?' John wasn't looking forward to it.

'We will have to. Now, get your coat and we'll go.'

* * *

As they walked up Lestrade's front porch, Sherlock got a key from his pocket. He twirled it in the air before they reached the door. With it, he opened the door.

'Pick-pocketing,' Sherlock explained before John could even open his mouth.

John rolled his eyes. Of course, he thought.

They walked through the hallway, which was decorated with paintings of coffee cups and Starbucks souvenirs.  
Sherlock walked straight to the coffee table, which hadn't been cleaned. He kneeled beside it, examined the wine stain once more, smelled it, felt it, then, finally, broke a piece of wood off the coffee table and put it in an evidence bag.

'Lestrade won't like that,' John muttered.

'Who cares,' Sherlock replied. John shrugged.

'Okay, now let's find that bag… It's not still on the coffee table, so Caroline must have hid it… Let's go to the bedroom.'  
John giggled nervously at the last comment, but Sherlock hadn't realised what he'd said. He was too caught up in the case.

'It must have been important, because it is not on the table anymore. If there wasn't anything in there that would prove their guilt, it would still be where she left it.' Sherlock was talking fast, deducing as he went.

They climbed the stairs, and went in the tiny bedroom directly opposite them. Both started to look in different directions, for an unknown handbag. They didn't know what it looked like, only that it must be something expensive, considering Caroline's clothes, and that it must be big enough for a wine bottle.

After searching for over thirty minutes, Sherlock found a leather bag propped up against the wall in a cupboard. Satisfied, and with a smirk on his face, Sherlock reached in and grabbed it by its handle. It felt quite heavy, and he realised the wine bottle must still be in there.

'John, I've found it,' Sherlock said, as he opened the bag. John just turned around, another bag in his hands.

'Oh, shit,' Sherlock swore. 'She _is _good…'

* * *

'We're lucky we found them at the same time.'

'What do you mean?'

They were in the lab, and Sherlock was looking through the microscope at the sample of wine they took from the coffee table.

'Well, she obviously wants to lead us to the wrong direction. If we had found one bag, we wouldn't have bothered searching for another. Now, we have two. We'll just go through everything in there, even if it takes all night.'

John sighed. He was arranging everything that was in the bags and put them on the table. Most of it was plain stuff; wallet, phone, even multiple nightgowns.

'Sherlock…' John mused. 'Do you have any idea why she brought multiple nightgowns? She could have done with one, the one she was wearing. It was as if she knew she'd have to stay at his house.'

'I think that it's always there; maybe she had multiple _men _to go to, as well. She has that bag packed in advance, so she won't run out of anything. Hmmm… this is odd,' Sherlock murmured.

'What is?' John asked curiously.

'This is just normal wine. There is nothing in it, nor in the bottle. Then why didn't she drink from it?' Sherlock closed his eyes, focusing one the case.

John fished out the last thing from the second bag. It was a bottle – a little bottle, with some kind of substance in it. It was unlabelled.

'What have you got there?' Sherlock asked suddenly. He stood up and grabbed the bottle with his right hand.

'Ah… so she _was _trying to drug Lestrade… But why like this? Why not put it in the bottle?' Sherlock was frowning, trying desperately to figure it all out.

'What is it?'

'I recognise it, I don't need to look at it through the microscope to know for sure. It's a drug used to sedate, only for a few minutes, depending on the dose, of course. But he didn't drink wine… He drank beer from a can, so she couldn't have put the drug in. The struggle wasn't even supposed to happen.'

'But it did happen. And why didn't she just put the drug in the bottle, then?' John was frowning as well, for it didn't seem to make perfect sense.

'There can be multiple reasons. She could have taken every precaution necessary, by not alarming Lestrade with an already open bottle. That would have been suspicious. Maybe she intended to drink it herself, though it is a mystery to me why she didn't. I measured the quantities of the stain, it couldn't have been less than a full glass. Perhaps they didn't have time, but on the recording, they were talking for quite a while before the men came in.'

'But why was the bottle in her bag? Was she trying to hide it?' Subconsciously, John moved closer to Sherlock.

'I think she just put it back in her bag when she filled her glass. There was a special stopper on it, so it wouldn't leak. She knew she would be carrying it back, then.' Sherlock was not at all oblivious to the fact John's arm brushed his.

'We'll examine it later. Now, we have to get to Scotland Yard; it's getting late already,' Sherlock sighed, straightening his jacket. He took John's hand and pulled him up, too, and they started to collect their things.

They took another cab to Scotland Yard, but because they started from St. Bart's hospital, it was a shorter ride than usual.  
They were sitting side by side, as close to each other as possible, and John rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, while Sherlock was stroking his hair again. It had become a bit of a habit.

When they got to Scotland Yard, they let go reluctantly, but gave each other a knowing look.

They strode through the long halls of Scotland Yard once more, looking for Donovan. When they found her, Sherlock asked whether he would be able to talk to Caroline again. John knew he would anyway, but asked just for the formalities.

'I'm afraid that won't be possible, freak. Anderson and I let her go.'

'You did what?' Sherlock exclaimed. 'We have evidence she was in on this, we know she was, and you let her go?'

'Sherlock, let's just leave, now. What's done, is done.' John touched Sherlock's back lightly, and turned him towards the door.

Sherlock shot Donovan one last menacing look before walking away with long strides.

'I can't believe it, they are so _stupid_… They had no reason to let her go like that,' he mumbled angrily.

'They didn't, Sherlock, you're right, but they had no right to keep her locked up like that. She wasn't of any use to them. And besides, if she is determined to find out who you really are and why you're still alive, she'll stick around. I'm sure this won't be the last we see of her.'

Sherlock turned to look at the shorter man.

'Have I told you already you're finally learning?'


	3. Chapters 5 and 6

**5. Pressure**

Sherlock was still angry as they reached 221B. He threw away his coat instead of putting it on the hook on the door, as he usually did. John noticed his lips twitch – it was a sign he was pissed off.

'Relax a bit, Sherlock. At least it gives us time to look at some other things…' John was trying to calm him down.

'What other things? Everything depended on her, the wine bottle, the drug, the…' Sherlock was rambling, pacing through the apartment, running his hands through his hair as he spoke.

'Okay, then. We will go looking for her in the morning. If you still don't feel satisfied, feel free to look at her bags again, but we have already gone over that a hundred times.'

'Not a hundred. Twelve,' Sherlock said, looking at John from the corners of his eyes.

'Fine.' John sighed, at a loss for what to do. 'I'm going to bed, because apparently, I am bothering you.'  
He started walking towards the door, but a long arm stopped him before he could get any further.

'I am sorry, John. I didn't mean to upset you like that,' Sherlock whispered.

'It's all right. But I do want to go to bed, though. I am really tired – it's been a tough two days.'

'You know, John,' Sherlock began a bit hesitantly, 'I quite liked sleeping on the sofa, last night. With you next to me…'

John laughed. 'You want to sleep on the sofa, tonight? Again? I've got a massive back-ache.'

'Well, not necessarily the sofa…' Sherlock frowned, not entirely sure he was saying it right. 'I just want to sleep next to you. I haven't slept like last night in a long time.'

John took Sherlock's hand. 'It's fine with me,' he whispered back.

Sherlock smiled, obviously relieved John hadn't misunderstood him. He bent down to kiss him, a light, short kiss, but nevertheless loving. John responded willingly, and they walked to Sherlock's bedroom together.

Just like the night before, they didn't bother changing into their pyjamas. They just crawled under the sheets together and snuggled up close. Sherlock put his arms around John, stroking his hair again, and John sighed happily.

He looked up into Sherlock's amazingly brilliant blue green eyes, traced the sharp lines of his cheekbones with his left hand, and bent forward to kiss him once more. Sherlock chuckled because John had a little difficulty doing so. Lowering his head a little to make it easier for John, he kissed him back, carefully.

After the kiss, John nestled his head in the hollow just below Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock rested his head on John's hair. They fell asleep holding each other and stayed like that all night.

* * *

After John opened his eyes, it took him a short while to remember where he was. He was lying in Sherlock's bed. In Sherlock Holmes' bed! He grinned at the thought. The light that fell through the small window in the room told him that he had missed a big part of the morning. He estimated that it must be about eleven already. He sat up and stretched out his arms. Sherlock was no longer lying next to him, and John assumed that he had been up for quite some time. He knew his friend well, and knew he didn't sleep much. And when he did, he never slept too long. John stared at the ceiling for a couple of minutes thinking about what had happened in the last two days. Especially last evening had been very special. Sherlock had used the three words that John had never expected to hear from him. And not only had he used them, he'd said them to John and he'd meant them.

When John walked into the living room, still not quite awake, he had expected to see Sherlock there, but the consulting detective was nowhere to be found. For a few terrifying seconds John believed everything had been a dream. His friend was still dead, and Sherlock most certainly did not _love_ him.

The doctor sighed in relief as his phone made a noise and he smiled as he read the text message from Sherlock:

'_Gone out. Will be back by the time you finish breakfast. –SH' _

John didn't hesitate and texted back right away. His fingers rushing over the keys he wrote:

'_Where are you? Working on the case?' –JW_

He held his phone in his hand the entire time while making himself a sandwich in the kitchen. Everything that connected him to Sherlock seemed special. Without Sherlock in the room, he felt alone. He had been alone for several months, so this shouldn't be a big deal, but John was too afraid to lose his friend for a second time. Next to that, he simply enjoyed being around him. He missed his warm touch and his sweet smile.

John's phone let out another _ping_.

'_In the lab. Drug turned out to be more interesting than I thought.' -SH _

John rolled his eyes. He had never quite understood why Sherlock put his initials at the end of _every_ text message. He didn't mind it though, for it made him who he was.

He responded with a short;

'_How do you mean?' _

John didn't expect a reply, because Sherlock usually didn't tell anything about their cases using texts, but, to John's surprise, it didn't take long before his phone _pinged_ for a third time.

'_Will tell you in a bit. Open the door.' –SH_

John chuckled and went downstairs to open the front door for the detective. His phone still clutched in one hand, his sandwich in the other, he unlocked it. Before the doctor could say anything Sherlock stepped inside and kissed him. Caught in surprise John dropped both his phone and sandwich and his right hand automatically shot up to Sherlock's face. The shorter man felt Sherlock's warm breath in his neck as the detective moved over to his jaw.

'Good morning John,' he muttered, but the doctor did not answer him. Instead he ran his hands through his hair, pulled Sherlock closer and kissed him even harder. John loved the touch of Sherlock's cold fingers against his cheeks, and he wished that their kiss would never end. But eventually Sherlock let go of John's face and after a final touch, he pulled away.

'You are,' John gasped for breath, 'very active in the morning.'

Sherlock laughed and said; 'Well, I have been up for over five hours. Plenty of time to wake up, I'd say.'

John grinned and then, with a slight frown on his face, he asked; 'What did you find out about the drug?'

'I know why she didn't put it in the wine bottle,' Sherlock, 'Very obvious, can't believe we missed it in the first place. It all makes sense now.'

John looked confused.

'She never _meant_ to drug Lestrade!' Sherlock exclaimed as he went upstairs and started pacing through the living room. 'Oh, she's brilliant, deceiving her master like that. These three men who came to get him, they knocked Lestrade out. Why would they've been there, _three_ of them, if Lestrade would've been unconscious before they even arrived!'

John shrugged, 'How would I know?'

'Exactly! Caroline wasn't supposed to drug Lestrade; it wasn't part of the master's plan! He sent the three men in… He thought there was no need to be subtle about it.'

'But then, why did Caroline bring the drug?'

'Because she was afraid, she was terrified! The drug wasn't for Lestrade, it was for herself.'

'She wanted to knock herself out, Sherlock? Are you serious?'

'Yes, of course I'm serious!

'Oh come on, why would she want to drug herself?'

'John, the drug wasn't meant to kill or to knock anyone out. I just checked it in the lab, it was a very small dose mixed with water. The drug could only be used to _sedate_ the person who consumed it! The four men made her nervous. This is why she's been this calm all the time. Remember when we listened to her talking to the fourth man? He didn't seem like a nice person to me, but she stayed calm. When you found her in the bedroom, when we interrogated her… she remained calm constantly.'

John nodded, that made perfect sense. Sherlock was indeed a genius. The papers, Mycroft or Anderson may have joked about him, but no matter what they said; the consulting detective would outsmart them all anyway. But then John realised something all of a sudden;

'Hang on,' he said, 'If she didn't want to drug Greg, then why did she bring her own bottle of wine?'

'She likes wine,' Sherlock answered with a straight face, 'She likes wine and her master must've told her that Lestrade did not. She may have been working, but that couldn't stop her from having a pleasant evening.'

John shook his head, 'Why didn't she drink from it?'

'She took the drug before she entered Lestrade's house. She wasn't sure whether it would be dangerous to drink alcohol, so she didn't.'

John nodded for a second time. Sherlock turned around and faced John with a determined look in his eyes. 'We have to find her,' he said.

'Why? She won't tell us anything,' John replied. There was a short silence before he added a curious, 'Or will she?'

Sherlock smiled in delight; 'Oh she'll tell us everything she knows. There's no sedative drug involved this time. She won't be able to keep a cool head and a straight face. We just have to pressure her a little and she'll spill the truth soon enough.'  
'Pressure her?' John asked worriedly. He wasn't sure what Sherlock meant with pressure. He remained a strange man, Sherlock Holmes, and you never knew what to expect…

'Don't you worry. We won't harm her.' Sherlock said as he stepped into John's direction, 'Not really.'

John frowned, but then a grin appeared on Sherlock's face.

'That was a joke,' John sighed relieved.

'Obviously,' Sherlock whispered. He was now so close to John, who was still standing in the middle of the flat, that he could practically hear his heartbeat. Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds before lowering his head. John leaned in and looked up at Sherlock, who still had a certain smile on his face. John could feel his heart pounding in his chest, as Sherlock firmly grabbed him by the shoulders. There was now less than an inch separating their faces now and John mumbled; 'You have a strange sense of humour.'

'I'm a strange person.'

John smiled and closed his eyes. He knew that within seconds he'd feel Sherlock's warm lips on his. He was right. He lifted John's chin upwards and tilted his own head a bit to the right. It was a short kiss, but that didn't stop John from shivering delightedly. But it wasn't just John who enjoyed the moment; Sherlock got goose bumps all over his arms as well. He didn't want John to see though, for he thought the shorter man would make fun of him, so he was glad that he was still wearing his long trench coat, his collar turned up.

Sherlock took John's arm and pulled him along as he left the living room and seconds later 221B.

'If you'd be hiding from the police, where would you go?' Sherlock asked as they walked on the sidewalk.

'Home?'

'Oh, use your imagination!'

'I don't have to.'

Sherlock chuckled, clearly enjoying the memory of one of their first conversations. Or fights more likely.

'It's just that I don't know where to start looking for her,' Sherlock explained.

John understood and had to admit that he didn't know either. 'If we don't know where to look, then where exactly are we going?'

'No idea.'

'Wait!' All of a sudden an idea popped into John's mind and he stopped walking and turned around.

'Where are you going?' Sherlock called after him.

'Home!' John enjoyed keeping Sherlock in the dark for once. However, when they arrived at 221B Baker Street once more, John turned to Sherlock and simply said;

'Her bag!'

Sherlock frowned for one moment, then muttered; 'of course…'  
The consulting detective turned around and followed John back inside, his long coat blowing behind him.

'Her mobile phone, her address book, her keys… let's pay her a visit,' John grinned as he wrote down Caroline's address. Sherlock just looked at him with a stunned look on his face.

'You knew something before I did. That never happened before…' he mused, studying John closely. John looked back with a determined look on his face.

'There's a first for everything,' he said with raised eyebrows.

'Indeed there is…' Sherlock whispered, lowering his face to John's and whispering in his ear. 'I rather like your new attitude, doctor Watson…'

John smiled, delighted with every compliment Sherlock gave him. He moved his head to the right, the side where Sherlock's mouth was just inches from his. He saw the corners of Sherlock's beautifully shaped lips curl up briefly before he pressed them to the shorter man's.

They knew they had to work on the case, but it could wait, Sherlock figured. It could wait, especially when there was a man like John in his arms, trying to hold him there forever, kissing him like he'd never kissed before. Sherlock closed his eyes contently, sighing as he parted his lips and pressing John even closer to him. John dropped the bag he was still holding and put the arm that was now free around the taller man, rubbing his back.

His touch left tingles all around Sherlock's back, even through his thick coat, jacket and shirt. He was breathing heavily, and because his lips were parted, John could feel every breath he took. It only made him feel closer to Sherlock, somehow understanding him better, as a person. Sherlock was, in some ways, just an ordinary man… an ordinary man with feelings just like anybody else.

'I love you, John,' Sherlock muttered between a few breaths. Though he said it very softly, in his hoarse voice, John understood every single word, and loving him back for it.

'I love you, too, Sherlock,' he whispered as he put his hands on the sides of Sherlock's face, gently touching his cheekbones with his fingers.

Sherlock smiled, pressed his lips to John's once more, and then to his forehead, stroking his hair with one hand, then, with one smooth movement, touched John's cheek and gently felt his lips.

'Let's go now, or we'll never make it there in time for bed,' he said, hopefully implying they would be sleeping in his bed together that evening, as well.

John knew what he was trying to say and chuckled. 'Okay, let's go. Her apartment is… Jesus, why do all these people live so far away from us?'

Sherlock smiled to himself at the last comment, loving how John could swear about the tiniest thing. He touched John's hand one last time before he turned to the door, the shorter man following close behind.

* * *

Caroline lived in a small, but luxury apartment, quite a way up. Sherlock and John needed to use the lift to get there, but being in such a small, enclosed space together only made them yearn for each other even more. They stood at opposite sides of the lift, staring at the other the whole time, not breaking eye contact.

When the lift made the small beep noise, they both jumped at the sound. Sherlock cleared his throat, then walked out with a slight spring in his step, obviously very happy about something.

They reached Caroline's place only a few minutes after that. Using her spare keys, they entered the apartment.

'Apparently, no one's here,' Sherlock said aloud, not even bothering to whisper. John liked the sound of Sherlock's voice both loud and soft.

The space was entirely open. There was a door leading to the bathroom on their right a few steps from where they entered the apartment, a short hallway leading to a sitting room and a kitchen, combined. There was no dinner table – there was no space – but there was a small table, like a coffee table, directly opposite the sofa. Past the open kitchen, on Sherlock and John's left, there was a bedroom, with only a curtain for enclosure.

The sitting area was surrounded by windows, and one door leading to a small balcony.

'Let's see what we can find here,' John said, walking towards the sofa. He had seen a telephone on the table and was ready to check for messages.

'You won't find anything on there,' Sherlock warned before he had even picked it up. 'Everything of importance was in her bag. It was divided over the two of them, so if we had found a bag, we wouldn't have all the information at once. It was clever, and it would have worked, had we not found both of them.'

'Then what are we doing here?' John looked at Sherlock with a confused expression on his face. 'If everything of importance is in the bags…'

'Well, we obviously need to talk to her, don't we?' Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 'We'll just wait for her to get home – but then again, we might not even have to wait…' he added as he heard the door knob move.

Sherlock grabbed John's arm and pulled him along, moving around the corner of the sitting area, out of sight from the apartment door.

'She will run if she sees us. We know she won't harm us, but she doesn't know the same about us,' Sherlock whispered in John's ear. John couldn't keep himself from shivering when he felt the warm air blowing past his right ear, and Sherlock couldn't suppress a chuckle when he felt John's arm, which he was still holding firmly, shake as the rest of John's body did, as well.  
They waited until they heard Caroline lock the door and walk through the short hallway.

'Hello, Caroline,' Sherlock announced as he moved around the corner with a swift movement, pulling John with him, his arm still clutched in his right hand.

John jerked his arm out of Sherlock's grasp quickly, and Caroline gasped for air. She took a step backwards, but Sherlock held his hands up and did the same.

'We're not here to hurt you, Caroline. We're only here to help,' he said softly, trying to calm her down.

Caroline stared at them with wide eyes, then, dropping her purse, burst into tears.

**6. I Owe You**

Caroline was sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea in her shaking hands, while Sherlock stood in the kitchen, distractedly looking through her cupboards. John was standing between them, barely keeping himself from telling Sherlock looking through other people's cupboards was rude.

'So, Caroline,' Sherlock said, 'you obviously know why we're here. Tell us everything you know. Everything.'

Caroline nodded. She took a deep breath and started talking.

'My boss told me to 'get to know' detective inspector Greg Lestrade. He said he had some special information on someone called… Sherlock Holmes.' She looked up.

'You're not Mycroft, are you? You're Sherlock Holmes. I knew. My boss told me, right after his men came and dragged Lestrade away – you've probably listened to the device – that I should wait in his bedroom, until the police came. Also, Sherlock Holmes and his partner John Watson would come.' This time, she looked at John, who flushed slightly at the word "partner".

'I was told to stay there, so I would make myself less suspicious. If I'd run, and you'd have found me, I would definitely be locked up. So I stayed.' She took a sip from her tea, and continued. 'A few evenings ago, me and Greg had a 'date'. I brought my own wine, but didn't drink from it because I had taken some calming medicine about an hour before. I think you already figured that out… I was told to keep Greg occupied, until the men came. They were supposed to take him away, and they did. My boss wanted his information, information on how you survived the fall from St. Bart's hospital.'

Sherlock was intrigued. It was all about him, about how – and why – he had survived. _Moriarty_ – a nagging voice inside his head whispered. He chose to ignore it.

'I left my bags there for you to find them. I knew you would soon realise I hadn't brought them with me to the police station. I hoped this day would come.' Caroline started tearing up again, which left both Sherlock and John staring at the other, confused.

'You wanted us to come to your apartment and interrogate you?' John wanted to make sure.

Caroline nodded. 'You see, I am afraid of my boss. One day, he will kill me. One day, I will have done something wrong and he will find me, and kill me. Please… help me…' Caroline started crying again, and Sherlock and John were at a loss.

'We will, Caroline. Come with us, to Scotland Yard. They will protect you, we promise. But first, you have to tell us – who is your boss?' Sherlock took a few steps toward the living room.

'He is called… Sebastian Moran,' Caroline sniffed, obviously terrified of the name. 'But that's all I know. I don't know where he lives, I don't have his phone number…'

'That doesn't matter, Caroline. The name is enough, for now.' Sherlock turned to the door. John jumped up immediately, helping Caroline from the sofa.

'Let's get you to Scotland Yard, first. They will protect you, make sure nothing happens to you. You will be safe there.'

They arrived at Scotland Yard only moments later. They had difficulty convincing Donovan and the other policemen that Caroline needed protection, but after a long, agitated discussion, they finally agreed to have her shadowed by two policemen, who would step in at the slightest hint of danger.

Caroline smiled her thanks to them as they walked by, clearly relieved her life as a spy was over.

* * *

'Have you heard the name before? Sebastian Moran?' John asked as they walked alongside each other, through the halls of Scotland Yard.

'Never heard of him,' Sherlock replied. He was thinking hard, he even considered going to his mind palace, but he knew it wouldn't be of much use. He hadn't heard of someone named Sebastian Moran, he would have remembered.

'Caroline didn't know he had a boss, too. The master,' Sherlock continued. 'She didn't mention anything about him – she would have if she knew.'

'So we're not any closer to finding Lestrade?' John asked, concerned about his other friend.

'Of course we are,' Sherlock replied, with a surprised tone. 'We now have the name of the criminal that has captured him. If we find Moran, we will find Lestrade.'

'But – you just said that he wasn't the master…' John moaned. 'Oh no, not The Face.'

'What face?' Sherlock asked, looking around.  
'The Face, the face you have when you think we both know what is going on. How do you know the master hasn't got Lestrade?' John was extremely irritated at this point. He hated it when Sherlock pulled The Face. It made him feel less, as if he was supposed to know something and he didn't.

'The master isn't in the picture. I'm starting to doubt if he ever will be. He wants to stay a secret, too, and by abducting Lestrade, he wants to lure us to him. He knows we're after him. He wouldn't be so stupid to lead us to him, and that's why he has several puppets, Sebastian being of the highest rank. He has got Lestrade.'

John nodded, glad Sherlock took the effort to explain things to him. It was as though he was his equal.

'But, how will we get in touch with him? We only know his name, and if he really is such a criminal mastermind, he won't be so stupid to leave any traces with which we would be able to find him.'

Sherlock smiled, and he fished something out of his coat pocket. He threw it in the air, before catching it again and saying: 'We won't have to get in touch with him. He will get in touch with us.'

'That's Caroline's mobile phone,' John said, stunned. 'That's brilliant… Sooner or later, he will have to call her, to ask how far along she is on finding out why you're still alive.'

'And we will answer the phone. The question is, how long will it take for him to call? We can't wait for a phone call and do nothing in the meantime, Lestrade's life is on the line.' Sherlock was frowning, obviously unhappy with the fact that it was Lestrade who'd gone missing, instead of some random person he didn't care for. He was just glad it wasn't John. He closed his eyes and tried to block that idea – it was too horrible to even think about.

'So… what _will _we do in the meantime?' John asked, looking up to Sherlock. Sherlock looked back, still with the frown on his face from his earlier thoughts. When he saw John looking at him with adoring eyes, he relaxed. John was here, and he, Sherlock, would make sure nothing ever happened to him.

'We will try to find out as much about Sebastian Moran as possible. We must be prepared. I've got a feeling this case is far more complex than we originally thought.'

'At least Caroline is safe. We don't have to worry about her anymore. I only hoped she knew some more…'

'That wouldn't make sense. She was terrified of her boss, and would be even more if she had valuable information for which she could be killed… Do you think the Homeless Network will be of use?'

'Hmm?' John asked, losing the subject of their conversation. 'The Homeless Network?'

'Yes… Do you think they would know anything about Sebastian Moran? Certainly they would've picked up on something. If I've learned anything over the past few years, it is that people are too careless around homeless people. That's why I started the Network in the first place… They don't miss anything.'

John nodded. 'That makes sense… I mean, why would an evil criminal mastermind like Sebastian Moran pay any attention to homeless people? They're practically invisible.'

'And that,' Sherlock pointed out, 'is why they are so valuable.'

* * *

John was sitting in a chair, with a laptop on his lap. Sherlock was standing behind him, staring at the screen over John's shoulder. They were trying to find something about Sebastian Moran, but there wasn't anything on him on the ordinary network.

Eventually, Sherlock hacked into the national database, to see if he'd ever done something on a national scale. It took a while to scroll through all the files, but in the end, they found a small file, with hardly any information, labelled 'Sebastian Moran'.

Intrigued, they both leaned forward and started reading. It immediately became clear that this was no person to fool around with. He had killed, stolen, abducted, smuggled, practically anything a good old fashioned villain would do.

Police – let alone the FBI – had never been able to find him. He had been able to deceive the security and get away fast before they turned up.

John heard Sherlock chuckle delightedly. John rolled his eyes. The more it became a mystery, the harder the riddle became to solve, the more Sherlock enjoyed it.

John looked around and found Sherlock pacing from the living room to the kitchen, and back again. His hands were brought together in front of his chin, as he always did when he was thinking. John expected him to say something, but when he didn't, he spoke up himself.

'It's going to be very hard to catch this guy,' he muttered. 'Even the national security has nothing on him.'

'It's getting interesting…' Sherlock whispered to himself. He walked back to John, urging him to scroll down a bit more.  
Nothing of importance came by, until –

'_Known for associating with criminal mastermind James Moriarty_…' Sherlock whispered.

'I thought people were still under the impression you invented Moriarty…' John mused. Then, he noticed Sherlock was exceptionally quiet. He looked around, half-hoping he was pacing again. He wasn't; he was staring at the wall directly opposite him, his blue green eyes wide open with fear. His hands were clutching the back of John's chair, whitening his knuckles. He took one deep, shuddering breath before speaking at last.

'Moriarty…' he croaked, still staring, but not seeing. He was remembering. 'How could he have survived?'

Just then, the screen flickered. They both frowned while they looked at it. John heard Sherlock gasp when three letters appeared;  
I O U.

'John – ' Sherlock whispered, almost too soft for John to hear. 'I was right. It is Moriarty. It's him. It's him…'

'Calm down, Sherlock. Nothing has happened. He isn't here, we're at home, right? In 221B. I'm here. Now, calm down…'  
John got up from his chair and gave Sherlock a comforting hug. He stayed like that, didn't move, until Sherlock stopped shuddering and gasping for air.

It was strange seeing Sherlock so afraid. It never happened before, he hadn't even been afraid when he met Moriarty face to face. It was almost as if Sherlock was more afraid of the idea of Moriarty than Moriarty as a person.

Sherlock answered John's hug after a few seconds. He held John, his right hand on the back of his head, his left around his shoulders. He closed his eyes as one tear dripped down his cheek.

'Sherlock, you're… you're crying,' John noticed, surprised. 'Are you that scared? You have faced him before, outsmarted him.'

'No, John. It's not because I'm scared. It's because I'm happy.'

'Happy? A moment ago, you were – ' John stopped talking, for Sherlock had already pressed his mouth to his.

John smiled, the taller man's lips still touching his, and he opened them slightly. Sherlock let out an amused snigger before responding. His mind was no longer or Moriarty – not entirely. It was weird how, usually, he was aware of everything in the room. But when he was with John, especially kissing him like this, he was only aware of him. It was as if there was nothing else, no one else but him.

'Sherlock,' John muttered between two kisses, 'I want to you remember that you're not alone. I will always be by your side. You are not going to face Moriarty alone.'

Sherlock felt his eyes getting wet again. John had a way with words, he noticed. He chose them in a way that conveyed the message perfectly, so that the other could understand everything that he was saying.

'I know that, John. You don't have to repeat it over and over…' Sherlock whispered, as he pulled John's face closer to his with both his hands, and kissed him even harder.

'I do, certainly if you keep kissing me like that every time I say it,' John chuckled. 'You have no experience whatsoever, but you know exactly what to do and how to do it…'

Sherlock didn't answer. He was too caught up with John's lips, John's cheeks, John's hair, John's eyes...  
It was late already, but they didn't care. They could have stood there, kissing each other all night. They never got tired of the other.

Sherlock started to pull John with him, slowly walking towards his bedroom, still kissing him with all his attention.  
'Hang on, Sherlock… I've got to shut the laptop, first, and I'd like to change my clothes and brush my teeth for a change,' John told him, his tone amused. It pleased him to know Sherlock loved him and wanted to be with him as much as he, but there was no rush.

Sherlock pulled back and looked at John, faking disappointment. His wide open eyes almost convinced John to stay with him, but finally, Sherlock let go and smiled.

'Be quick,' he told him before he turned and walked to his bedroom. He closed the door behind him, hoping John would indeed be quick.

He had just changed his own clothes when John came in, a bit nervously. Sherlock was delighted to see John again, even though it had only been five minutes. He walked up to him with open arms, taking John in a warm and loving embrace. He held him like that for only a moment longer before continuing where they left off. A bit too late, Sherlock realised his arms were no longer covered by a long coat or jacket, and got goose bumps all over them. John didn't notice, though, for he was otherwise occupied.

They didn't know how long they just stood there, in Sherlock's bedroom, it could've been hours, it could've been twenty minutes, but they didn't care. It was only after John started feeling tired that Sherlock whispered in his ear, 'I think we should get some sleep… You're the doctor, what do you think?' he added with a teasing smile.

'Sleep sounds good. Will you be gone the next morning as well?' John asked, resting his cheek to Sherlock's chest while the taller man cradled his head.

'If you don't want me to, I'll stay,' Sherlock muttered back. Carefully, he turned John around and put him in bed. With one smooth motion, he lifted the sheets and shot under beside him. John immediately reached for his face.

'This is not sleeping,' Sherlock informed him as John crawled closer and started kissing him again. Nevertheless, he smiled and responded, lightly brushing his lips against John's, his right hand on John's lower back.

'No, this is better,' John replied, putting his left hand around Sherlock's neck. 'Doctor's orders,' he whispered with a grin. Sherlock laughed out loud, a low, rumbling, enchanting laugh that made John's heart pound faster. Sherlock gave John one last kiss, then told him to go to sleep. They didn't know how tough the upcoming week would be.

A bit reluctantly, John pulled his face away from Sherlock's and rested his head on the same spot as he had done the day before. Sherlock put his own head on top of John's, and they fell asleep almost immediately.

* * *

John woke up and was delighted to find he was still in Sherlock's arms, though not in the same position in which they had fallen asleep.

John lay on his left side, his back to Sherlock, but the taller man lay in the exact same position, his hand on John's upper right arm. His head was close enough for John to feel his warm breath blowing past his skin, leaving delightful tingles spreading in every direction.

John could judge by the pattern of Sherlock's breathing that he was already awake. He smiled and turned his head, instantly looking into the beautiful, almost colour-changing eyes that were staring at him so intensely.

'You stayed,' he whispered happily.

'You wanted me to,' Sherlock answered. 'How could I ignore that?'

Feeling a bit guilty, John asked: 'How long have you been awake?' He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.  
'A little over three hours,' Sherlock replied. 'But I don't mind… It was – nice, just lying here with you, holding you, hearing you breathe…'

'Three hours?' John almost yelled. He turned around to face Sherlock, who was staring at him with an amused smile playing around his uniquely shaped lips.

John shook his head, amazed that Sherlock was able to sit around and do nothing for three hours.

They got dressed quickly, and decided to go to a restaurant for breakfast. They needed something to do while figuring out what their next move in the investigation would be, and they figured going out was the best option.

Sherlock put his scarf on and turned his coat collar up in that particular way of his, making John laugh.

'You're in a merry mood today, doctor Watson,' Sherlock said with raised eyebrows.

'Am I?' John responded, chuckling to himself. 'Well, maybe I am…' he added softly when Sherlock approached him and pressed his lips to his cheek. Sherlock joined in on the chuckling, then, dashing off the stairs to the main hall and on the street.

It was a bleak morning, as it usually was in London. The sky was blue, with little clouds, but the temperature was down, close to freezing. John immediately regretted not picking out anything warmer and envied Sherlock, with his warm coat.

They went inside a little restaurant eventually, and John was grateful for the warmth. Sherlock picked out a table near the window, away from the other tables, giving them some privacy.

John ordered one breakfast, because he knew Sherlock wouldn't eat much, if anything.

'So the master is Moriarty. I wonder how he survived,' Sherlock mused. 'Blood bag, fake gunshot. He did do a terrific job, playing dead. There were no signs of life – but then again, I didn't check his pulse. Perhaps, with enough practise, one could learn not to breathe and blink for a while… If anyone, Moriarty would certainly be able to. But, in order for me to commit suicide, he had to kill himself.' Sherlock let out a harsh, insincere laugh. 'We both faked our deaths. Two geniuses, and we both thought we fooled the other. I should have been more observant. I should have known Moriarty wouldn't have shot himself like that, with no plan at all. It's what I would do, what I _did_.'

John listened to Sherlock's rambling, slightly concerned for him. It really bothered him, finding out his arch enemy was still alive.

'But we must worry about this later,' Sherlock decided, slamming his fist on the table. 'Our priority at the moment is Lestrade, and the person who's got him. Sebastian Moran. There must be some kind of clue, something we missed, that will lead us to him. Let's go through what we know about him already.'

'Well, he's a criminal mastermind – slightly less intelligent than you and Moriarty,' John began, eating some toast with a fried egg.

'He works _for _Moriarty, but has people himself, too. He was in Lestrade's house, after the three men knocked him out…' Sherlock suddenly realised something. 'Oh!' he sighed and stood up, leaving some cash on the table and heading towards the door.

John, who was still in the middle of his breakfast, sighed and stood up as well, following Sherlock out.

'Will you tell me – ' he began when he caught up with him.

'The three men!' Sherlock just shouted. '_The three men_!' he repeated when John just looked at him, oblivious to what Sherlock thought obvious.

'Taxi!' Sherlock shouted, signalling a cab over. 'I'll explain on the way to Scotland Yard,' he told John, who was still frowning in confusion. 'Scotland Yard,' he repeated to the cabbie and they got in the back of the car together.

'We're going to see Caroline again. She needs to tell us everything she knows about the three men,' Sherlock explained, fervently moving his hands, as though he was hurried. 'Until now, we have been focusing on Lestrade, Caroline, and recently, Moran. We're getting nowhere on that last one just by that name. The three men, they work for him, too, but we never asked who they actually were. They were probably just as important to the abduction as Caroline was, for without them, Lestrade would never have been captured in the first place.' Sherlock sighed. Explaining things to John always seemed to clarify things.

'Caroline must know who they are, and they must have known where to bring Lestrade after he'd been knocked out. This time, we _will _pressure them into telling where they brought him. I'm not so sure they will be as cooperative as Caroline was. Have you brought your gun?' Sherlock didn't want to wait for an answer and checked John's body himself.

'Yes, I've brought my gun, and you can stop touching me like that, now, Sherlock…' John said with clenched teeth, desperately trying to keep himself from shivering.

'Still not comfortable with kissing in a cab?' Sherlock teased.

'We're not _kissing_, Sherlock,' whispering the last two words as he felt Sherlock's warm, familiar breath in his neck.

'Yes, we are,' Sherlock whispered back, closing the gap between their mouths. Comfortable or not, John responded immediately by closing his eyes and reaching for Sherlock's soft curls, completely forgetting they were actually in a cab and the driver could hear and probably see them.

Sherlock chuckled at John's response, and he pressed his body to John's with only a little pressure. They were so tightly pressed together, there was enough space for two more people on Sherlock's left.

Sherlock moved about an inch to the left, giving John some space to collect his thoughts, but leaving his hand on John's leg.

'Scotland Yard,' the driver said with a nervous undertone, glancing over his shoulder. Sherlock smiled at John and they got out of the cab, paid the driver and walked through the entrance of Scotland Yard.

* * *

'Good morning, Anderson, Donovan,' Sherlock said with a delighted grin on his face, briefly looking at John as they passed by.

'Freak,' Donovan greeted back, as Anderson muttered; 'what a weirdo…'

Sherlock obviously heard, and chuckled at the comments. John loved Sherlock's face when he was happy; everything seemed to light up, and he remembered Sherlock had looked like that when they found out they loved each other.

'Caroline, good morning.' Sherlock greeted her with a smiled much more sincere than the one directed to Anderson and Donovan.

'Good morning,' she smiled back. 'I assume you want me to tell you something?'

'Yes,' Sherlock smiled. 'Let's cut to the chase, shall we? I want you to tell us who those three men were.'

'They work for Sebastian Moran as well. They are part of his security system, and they're very dangerous. I took the drug for them, as well, because they can get a little light fingered sometimes.'

'Can you tell me their names, or addresses?' Sherlock pressed, unconsciously leaning forward, fascinated by her story.

'I don't know their names, I'm sorry. They all have code names, and Sebastian didn't trust me enough with their actual names. I only know the numbers with which they were associated, but that won't help you. Sebastian is very careful around those things.'

Caroline was frowning, trying to remember anything that might be important.

'But surely they must have brought Lestrade somewhere after they dragged him away. Do you happen to know where that is?' Sherlock was getting anxious now. Apparently, Caroline was only a minor player in this game. A pawn.

'I do, to be honest. I'm not actually supposed to, but I overheard them once. They were talking about where to bring Greg after they got him. Sebastian's house was an option, at first, but then they decided it'd be too dangerous, because they expect you to figure it out soon enough. He doesn't want you in his house, you see,' Caroline smiled at Sherlock, clearly amused by everyone's suspicion of him.

'They want me to come and get Lestrade, so they can capture me instead,' Sherlock muttered. 'That must mean we will be able to figure this all out. Continue, Caroline.'

'So, Sebastian's house was out of the question. They started discussing abandoned places, factories, construction sites, those kind of things. Eventually, they came up with this address, if I recall correctly…'

Caroline wrote down the address of an abandoned, half demolished hotel in the outskirts of London, which Sherlock immediately recognised.

'You must know that it's only a meeting place, it isn't of importance to him. They were only supposed to bring Greg there, so they could transport him to a safer place,' Caroline warned.

'We understand, Caroline. However, I think it's a good idea to pay that hotel a little visit. Perhaps they've left some clues…'

Sherlock was delighted with this new information. It gave them a purpose, something to do, to investigate, instead of just sitting around and thinking. He jumped up immediately, half dragging John with him, talking excitedly.

'This is such an interesting case, isn't it? Whoever that Moran guy is, he really did do his homework. He knows exactly how to get me interested.'

'Or did Moriarty tell him?' John asked critically.

Sherlock paused for a moment. 'He might have,' he admitted. 'But I'm sure they don't have such direct contact. It's not like Moriarty to communicate with others so carelessly.'

'And what about your Homeless Network? Had they heard anything about Moran?' John wanted to know, walking fast to keep up with Sherlock's long strides.

'No… But what if they didn't hear the name, but they did hear him? There are some homeless people "living" near that hotel, I could try asking them for information, on whether they heard them. An abduction like that can't have gone silently, they must have heard something. Moran was probably with them, giving them further instructions.'

John nodded in comprehension. 'Well, it's still early. What do you reckon we should do?'

'We're going to that hotel first. I want to know whether there's anything there that might lead us to Lestrade's whereabouts,' Sherlock suggested, looking at John for approval. John shrugged and followed Sherlock, who was now extremely excited about another "crime scene".

They returned to 221B Baker Street to prepare, but, to their surprise, they found another person sitting in their chair, looking up as they entered.

'Hello, little brother,' Mycroft said. 'Mrs Hudson made me some tea, I hope you don't mind.'

'No, not at all,' John said, while at the same time, Sherlock sneered; 'Yes, I do mind, actually.' They looked at each other and started laughing.

'God, not this again,' Mycroft sighed. 'I know all about it – we're not blind, you know.'

John felt his face getting warm and red, but Sherlock just grinned. 'Then you wouldn't mind it if we sat together on the sofa?'  
Mycroft pulled his most disapproving face, but told them it was alright. Sherlock and John sat on the sofa together, and Sherlock put his arm around John just to make Mycroft uncomfortable.

'It might have come to your attention,' Mycroft said through gritted teeth, 'that the press haven't said anything about your survival yet. So far, I have been able to stop them from publishing anything contradicting to the truth – for as far as I know it. I cannot hold them any longer, Sherlock, so I want to know; what should I tell them to write?'

'I want you to tell them to write that I am not a fraud. I have not invented Moriarty, there is no Richard Brook, and I haven't abducted those children. It's the truth,' Sherlock said defiantly. 'Moriarty shot himself on that roof. His death was the only thing that could make me commit suicide. John's life was on the line.'

Mycroft was stunned, although he didn't show it. His face was perfectly steady as he took in this new information. He had no doubt every word his younger brother said was true, but he had to come up with some proof himself in order for the press to buy it.

Sherlock knew he had caught his brother off guard, but he didn't care. He wanted his reputation back, even though he had told everyone who would listen over and over again that he didn't care about his reputation. He only cared about his work.  
But this whole Richard Brook thing went out of control. He wanted it settled, once and for all.

Mycroft's mouth twitched into what could have been a smile, had it been sincere. 'Do you have proof?' he asked, not entirely looking forward to coming up with his own.

'No. Moriarty and I had each other believe we were dead. We have both found out that we faked our deaths, and now he wants revenge. He won't make mistakes like those again. I'm afraid you will have to convince the press yourself, Mycroft…' Sherlock wasn't feeling all too cooperative. He was mostly just annoyed by Mycroft's unexpected visit, interrupting their investigation.

'How is your investigation going?' Mycroft asked, as if he knew exactly what Sherlock was thinking about. 'Have you found Lestrade, yet?'

'We were going to, but then we found you here. We're not making progress like this, Mycroft,' Sherlock muttered. He was rolling his eyes, and John was trying not to laugh out loud.

'Then I shall not hold you up any longer,' Mycroft announced as he reached for the umbrella he always carried with him. 'Good day, Sherlock, John…' he said when he turned to the door.

'Good day, Mycroft,' John replied. Sherlock just looked the other way.

'Why are you always mad at Mycroft? He did just do you a favour, you know…' John turned to look at Sherlock, and was surprised to find that Sherlock had a beaming smile on his face.

'What a strange person you are, Sherlock Holmes,' John sighed. 'Let me guess – you _like _arguing with Mycroft like that?'

'Good guess,' Sherlock whispered. 'Get any better, and people will run to you to solve their cases instead of me…'

John snorted. 'Yeah, like that's going to happen – '

Sherlock had moved forward on the sofa, put his arms around John and kissed him, still with that delighted smile on his face. He felt so happy at that moment, he couldn't stop himself from kissing John.

John was caught off guard and lost his balance, falling back on the sofa, Sherlock on top of him. It didn't stop him from running a hand through Sherlock's hair, and it didn't stop Sherlock from pressing his lips to John's with more urgency.

'Sherlock,' John said, trying to keep Sherlock from kissing him even more, 'we have to get moving, the hotel – '

'Can wait,' Sherlock finished his sentence, though not the way John had planned. He used his elbows to take his weight, so that John wouldn't be gasping for air during their kiss. Sherlock sniggered at the thought, which irritated John a bit.

'What's so funny?' he asked, resting his head on a pillow.

'I hoped my weight wouldn't be too much for you,' Sherlock chuckled. He was still wearing his coat, and it was big enough to cover both of them.

'It is not. I rather like it, to be honest.' John moved his free hands to Sherlock's back, reaching underneath the coat.  
Sherlock shuddered at the touch, and it was John's turn to chuckle.

They stayed like that for a moment longer, but then they decided they would have to get moving. It was already three o'clock, and the hotel was at least an hour's drive away.

They left their flat for the second time that day, taking a cab as far as they went.

* * *

'We will have to walk after that,' Sherlock told John, 'cabs don't go as far. That hotel's practically out of town.'

When the cab went as far as it was allowed to go, the duo got out and walked the remaining few kilometres. It was time consuming, which unnerved Sherlock, but he was at the same time glad he and John got to spend time together and work on the case without sitting around and being useless.

'What do you expect to find there?' John asked, feeling the familiar urge to make conversation – and to hear Sherlock's beautiful, deep voice.

'Well, they must have known either Caroline would tell us, or that we would just figure out some other way where they took Lestrade after he'd been dragged out of his house. I think they might have left a message, or some slight signs for us to notice. They will be testing us. They will want to figure out a what pace we will go through this investigation. It might become dangerous – but I know you're at your best in dangerous situations, aren't you, doctor?' Sherlock looked sideways, at the shorter man whom he loved and admired.

'I guess I am,' John replied. 'But, Sherlock, do you think some will still be there? They want you, eventually. They're using Lestrade to get to you, and if they suspect you will get to that hotel in a matter of days, they will have someone on the lookout. We better be careful.'

Sherlock nodded. 'I can't deny it has crossed my mind. I think you might be right, John, they will have someone there. But they might not expect two people. Do you remember that I asked you to bring your gun?'

John remembered, if only because of the taxi ride and what happened during that ride. 'Of course,' he replied, cheeks turning slightly red, but with a smirk on his face.

'I don't think they will have more than one person there. We should be able to defend ourselves; we have been in worse situations before.' Sherlock looked straight ahead, knowing that around the next bend, the wrecked hotel would be visible.  
It wasn't a big hotel, even with the demolished bits, but the driveway and the parking space was. They crossed it as fast as possible, guns ready. Sherlock started to feel the familiar rush of excitement of an investigation.

They entered the lobby of the hotel, which was dark – there was no power – and cold. On the floor were pieces of the wallpaper, flyers, and several pots where recently, some plants had been growing.

'Where to begin?' John muttered.

'Room 21, second floor,' Sherlock replied. 'That's funny, they used our address – floor 2, room 21. They knew we would be coming.'

'How do you know it's room 21 of the second floor?' John asked.

'The hotel might be out of service, but there are still several keys on the board. One of the few which are missing is room 21 of the second floor. It's the most logical assumption they must have hid there, for they knew we would come and they know where we live.' Like always, Sherlock didn't care much for whispering.

'Okay then, let's go,' John urged. 'The key is still missing, so does that mean they're still there?'

'No. They might have thrown away that key as they went. We've just got to check to make sure.'

Sherlock went first, using the stairs because the lift carried a sign that said: "Out of Order". It was still dark, especially on the stairs, where there was no light from the outside. Sherlock used his flashlight to light the way.

They reached room 21 in a matter of seconds, but it appeared to be locked.

'John, hold this for me,' Sherlock ordered, giving him his flashlight and gun. He took a few steps back, then burst forward, shoulder first, and threw himself at the door. It almost burst out of its hinges, but at least it opened.

John gave Sherlock his stuff back and they went inside. It was a small hotel room, nothing special. They entered the room in a corner, to their right was a bed big enough for two people. On both sides of the bed, at the head's end, were doors, the left leading to the bathroom, the right to the cupboard that held cleaning supplies. Opposite the bed was a small television.

'There's no one here,' Sherlock confirmed after looking in the bathroom. 'Let's start finding some clues.'

They started looking for anything that might be suspicious. John didn't notice anything out of the ordinary, at first, but when he went in to check the bathroom and pulled the shower curtain aside, he gasped for air.

'Sherlock!' he called, looking around for his friend. When no response came, John started to get worried. He left the bathroom, gun in his right hand, and found Sherlock standing opposite a man with a gun twice as big as theirs.

'Sherlock, eh?' the man sniggered. 'Sherlock Holmes? Just the person I was lookin' for.'

'Who are you?' Sherlock asked. He had pulled his gun, too.

'Tha's not important,' the man sneered, suddenly becoming violent. John flinched – he was scared, but he had missed it. It was like Mycroft told him a long time ago; "you are not haunted by the war, doctor Watson. You miss it".

'Then what are you doing here? Why am I the person you were looking for?' Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes. John knew Sherlock was extremely irritated by the man's lack of proper speech.

'I'm here to kill you,' the man grinned. 'Me boss told me, he said, "I will give you loads o' money if you find Sherlock Holmes and bring him to me dead". But who's the other one? He din't tell me anythin' about another one.'

'This is my friend and colleague, John Watson. He's been in the army; he's killed people. And so have I. We're not afraid to do it again.' Sherlock removed the safety pin of the gun and pointed it to the man's chest. John went to stand beside his friend and did the same. His hand was amazingly steady, another thing Mycroft had pointed out.

'John, after we've shot this man, I'd like you to show me what you just found in the bathroom,' Sherlock said with the light air of small talk. John grinned and nodded.

The other man looked confused, raising his own gun but, before he could point it at the duo, a bullet fired from John's gun hit his left shoulder, while another, which source was Sherlock's gun, hit his right knee.

Sherlock moved over quickly, removing the bigger gun from the wounded man and calling the police.

'Donovan, we have a wounded man here… John and I shot him. Send an ambulance to…'

He closed the call a few seconds later, beckoning John to the bathroom. He moved around the corner, with John just inches behind him, but stopped in his tracks when he saw the wall behind the bath tub. There was one big blood spatter, some of it drooping in the tub.

'Oh no… Lestrade,' Sherlock whispered. He shook his head. 'Take a sample of that. We need to be sure when it happened, and if it really is Lestrade's blood.'

John moved over quickly, scraping some of the dried blood into an evidence bag.

'Now, let's wait until the police get here,' Sherlock said, then adding, 'I didn't see anything else in this room that might lead us to either Moran or Lestrade – or both. Let's go to the lab.'


	4. Chapters 7 and 8

**7. Problems**

Sherlock and John had just left the hotel when an ambulance and two police cars arrived. 'You deal with them,' Sherlock told John and after he shot him a last smile, he walked away.

'Hey! Sherlock?' John called after him in surprise. He wanted to follow his friend but a hand on his shoulder stopped him from doing so. 'Morning, sir.'

John turned around and faced a policeman he'd never seen before. The man was much younger than John.

'Good morning,' he replied with raised eyebrows.

Sherlock in the meanwhile, had gone looking for people from his Homeless Network. It didn't take him long to find a girl and an old man sitting next to the Hotel's rubbish bins. The girl held the man's shaking hands in her own and seemed genuinely worried about him. They both wore big, warm coats and their faces were covered in dirt. The old man noticed Sherlock first, jerked his right hand out of the girl's grasp and pointed it at the consulting detective. The girl turned and Sherlock could now see the rest of her face, which was also covered in filth. Her grey eyes examined Sherlock and rested on his face. 'You're not passing by,' she stated and Sherlock shook his head in response.

The old man, still pointing, frowned in surprise and his eyes grew big, with what seemed like fear. 'It's okay,' the girl whispered, 'he won't harm us, Jack.' She was foreign, Sherlock judged by her accent, probably from somewhere near Russia.

Jack was clearly not convinced and hid behind the girl. She rolled her eyes and asked Sherlock what he wanted, her voice brisk and raw.

'My name's Sherlock Holmes,' he said and before he could continue, the girl gasped.

'Oh, I'm so sorry, I did not know,' she muttered, 'How can I help?'

'I need you to tell me whether you witnessed an abduction here, a few days ago. There were probably five men involved, one of them was the victim, another the leader.'

'The victim,' the girl began, 'could that have been… a detective inspector?'

Sherlock nodded, glad to hear that the girl knew who Lestrade was.

'Yes, yes, they came here. The detective was unconscious, three men carried him inside. The other, erhm… criminal, their boss, he was…'

The girl had trouble finding the right words in the English language.

'Describe him to me. What did he look like?'

The girl frowned and closed her eyes, desperately trying to remember what Moran looked like. 'He had blonde hair, not long, not short either. A small…'

The gestured at her own chin and then pointed at Jack's bushy beard.

'Oh, a beard?'

The girl nodded, 'yes, a beard! A small, blonde beard. He was muscular. Big strong arms. He had a scar, right here.' She pointed at her eyebrow. There was a short silence before she got up from the ground and stepped towards Sherlock. She studied his face and then mumbled, 'Will you find him?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'I don't know. I'll find him when Moriarty wants him to be found.'

'Moriarty?' the girl recognised the name immediately. 'The blonde man mentioned him a few times.'

'Did he fear the name?'

The girl frowned and shook her head. 'No, but the other men clearly did.'

'Jesus! We only shot him because he was trying to shoot _us! _It was merely self-defence!' John shouted at the cop.

'Sir, please calm down.'

'Calm down? Who do you think you are? Telling me what to and what not to do. How old are you?'

'Sir, would you _please_ calm down? If you don't lower your voice right now, I'm going to have to take you to the station.'

John rolled his eyes and sighed impatiently. He tried to prevent himself from yelling again, but he simply couldn't; 'Lives are at stake here and you're seriously considering to lock _me_ up?'

'I never said anything about locking you up, sir, it's just I…'

'OH COME ON!'

'Exactly; come on. We've got a lab to visit.' John immediately recognised Sherlock's voice and turned around to see his friend smiling at him. He didn't smile back, though. 'Where have you been?' he bellowed.

'I'll tell you in the cab,' Sherlock replied, clearly a bit taken aback by John's shouting. John gave the young policeman a final nasty look and then followed his friend. Still pissed off, he muttered; 'Who do they think they are? _We_ are the ones catching the criminals for them, and then _they_ come to arrest_ us_. It's insane.'

'He didn't arrest you,' Sherlock answered him.

'Really, Sherlock? Not helping.'

There was a strange silence in the cab. John and Sherlock had had small fights like this before, but not while being in a relationship. John wondered whether it would be any different now. He hoped not. He already regretted shouting at him and he didn't want Sherlock to be angry with him. John frowned, he wasn't even sure whether Sherlock was upset. He probably wasn't, though he had seemed hurt after John yelled at him.

'So, are you going to tell me where you were?' John asked eventually. The question came out a bit more bold than he had wanted it to.

'Homeless Network,' he simply replied.

'Are you going to tell me what you found out?' John asked, raising his voice once more. Sherlock meant to give John an angry look, but as soon as he saw John's face he couldn't help but giggle. He secretly enjoyed it when John was pissed off with him, especially when he looked at him like that.

He knew that John could never be angry for long, so he couldn't take it too seriously.

John had trouble not joining in with Sherlock's laughter, and Sherlock obviously noticed right away, which made him chuckle even harder.

'Oh sod this,' John said as he started to laugh as well.

The duo entered the lab only moments later. John had forgotten all about the police officer. Instead his head was now filled with the sound of Sherlock's low rumble, a sound he loved so much and made it impossible to think of anything bad. Sherlock, no longer laughing, sat down on a chair and fumbled with the microscope in front of him. He asked John for Greg's blood samples and the doctor handed the evidence bag over quickly.

John, who never understood much about Sherlock's research, started pacing around the empty lab. It was a modern place, very structured, he didn't like it much. The doctor didn't want to disturb his friend so he tried to keep himself as quiet as he could, nevertheless he couldn't resist asking, 'Is it Lestrade's?'

Sherlock nodded and looked up from the microscope. John flinched but recovered himself rather quickly.

'I hate this, Sherlock,' he admitted, 'and I hate Moriarty for doing this!'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly as John mentioned his archenemy's name. 'He knows we care about him, he knows it affects us, and that's exactly what he wants.'

John saw the hatred towards Moriarty in his friends' eyes and walked over to him.

'Take your coat off,' he whispered and then added, 'That's an order.'

Sherlock chuckled, 'an order?'

'I was in the army, remember?'

Sherlock laughed but listened to the shorter man anyway. His coat fell to the floor and John immediately put his arms around Sherlock, who appeared to be wearing his tight, purple shirt. The taller man's hands shot up to John's faced and followed his jaw line. John looked at Sherlock. Now that he had taken his coat off, John noticed how the man was both skinny and muscular at the same time. He liked his body – very much even. Sherlock lowered his head and his perfectly shaped lips curled into a smile before they touched John's. It was a passionate kiss and both men were taken up in the action. Their hands were all over each other. John stroked Sherlock's cheekbones and his fingers ran through his soft curls as Sherlock shifted his weight and John stumbled backwards. His back thudded against a cupboard, which wobbled dangerously. 'Careful!'

The two men chuckled a few seconds. John breathed in Sherlock's neck, which made the other man shiver. Sherlock loved the warmth of the doctor so much and, without thinking about it, pressed his own lips against John's for a second time. John was pushed against the cupboard again, and this time definitely knocked something in there over, but he didn't care. He wouldn't let go of Sherlock if the ceiling came down. Sherlock pulled away and gasped for breath. He didn't get too much time, for John pulled him back by the neck, his grip too strong for Sherlock to get away, but the detective didn't mind – at all. Neither of them knew how much longer they had kissed when eventually Sherlock's lips let go of John's.

They stared into each other's eyes for a long while and John scanned every inch of Sherlock's. He still wasn't sure what colour they were, partly green and partly blue, but they were beautiful that he knew for sure. And then of course there were his long eyelashes, which completed his already perfect eyes.

Without taking his eyes off John, Sherlock walked back towards his microscope. He sighed when he looked in it again. John simply watched him, he liked Sherlock behind his microscope. So incredibly concentrated, comparing samples with other samples.

It took him no more than five minutes to figure out that the blood probably came from a big head wound, serious enough to hurt Lestrade and possibly knock him out. He could also tell that the wound was caused by an iron, blunt object, probably the back of a gun, by looking at the pictures from the tub that forensics took. He could even tell that there had been a struggle, which indicated that Greg had been conscious in the hotel room. At least for a while before the men knocked him out for a second time that night. 'None of this even matters!' Sherlock exclaimed desperately, 'It doesn't tell us anything about where Lestrade is now.'

He fished Caroline's mobile phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. 'Why hasn't he called yet?' Sherlock muttered.

John shrugged. 'I don't know, but we might as well wait a little longer. There's nothing else we can do anyway.'  
'I know!' Sherlock bellowed, obviously frustrated by the lack of criminal masterminds calling him. 'It's not helping…' he muttered. 'I made a mistake… a stupid, _stupid _mistake…'  
'What mistake?' John asked, instantly remembering Sherlock hadn't even told him everything about what he'd found out from the Homeless Network. He became irritated by the tall, handsome man he had kissed so passionately only moments before.  
'Caring!' Sherlock shouted. John jumped backwards at the loud sound of his low voice.

'Caring,' Sherlock repeated, 'makes you more desperate. Caring is what makes the average mind so easily influenced. I made the mistake of caring about Lestrade.'

'Honestly, Sherlock? Caring is bad?' John couldn't believe what he was hearing – at first. Then he remembered he was arguing with Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes never changed. They might be in a relationship now, but that didn't mean Sherlock's mind changed, even if his heart did.

'What about me?' John asked eventually. Sherlock tensed – it was easily visible in his tight, purple shirt, John noticed, but he was too anxious to feel attracted by it. 'Caring about me, do you think that is a mistake, as well?' John wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he had to ask.

Sherlock didn't answer. He was just fumbling with his microscope, avoiding eye contact.

It was as if John's heart dropped. His vision blurred, because of the tears that started to fill the corners of his eyes.  
John didn't know that Sherlock was actually thinking very hard about that last question. He cared about John, he really did – but was it a mistake? How could it be? He even loved him. Sherlock closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair in desperation.

Loving John – caring about him – wasn't a mistake, he was sure of it.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up, but John was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. John was gone, he left.

The tears that had also threatened Sherlock's eyes finally broke through. He sat down again, his shoulders slumping downwards. What had he done?

* * *

John walked through the long, empty hallways of the hospital, barely able to keep himself from crying. He wanted to keep as much distance between him and Sherlock. Sherlock, the man he loved. Sherlock, the man who didn't care – about anything.

Nothing had changed, after all. The only thing was that they had kissed. _And that you're in love_, a nagging voice in the back of his head whispered.

'SHUT UP!' John shouted. Several people looked in his direction; he was already standing in the middle of the pavement.

Not feeling the slightest hint of embarrassment, John signalled a cab, wiping his wet cheeks with the sleeve of his other arm.

'Baker Street,' he told the cabbie and he got in the back of the car.

Where do we go from now? he asked himself. Would he even want to stay with me? Would I want to stay with him? The last thought went along with a sharp pain in his chest. There was no doubt about it. He would never leave Sherlock, he wouldn't be able to. Sherlock might be a strange person with strange morals, but John was the only person in the world who really understood him.

* * *

Sherlock sat alone in the lab for what seemed like hours. Molly passed by several times, but Sherlock ignored her – if he even saw her. His thoughts were entirely focused on John.

He was thinking about what to say to him. I'm sorry, John, I should have known – no, that wasn't good, it wasn't even true. I apologise, John, for what I said, I wasn't thinking… That didn't work, either. He was always thinking. Sherlock sighed. It was going to be much harder than he'd expected.

Suddenly, he jumped up, reaching a decision. Because he had been sitting in the same position for over three hours, his whole body felt stiff. He stretched his arms, noticing his shirt was a bit tight. Maybe I should buy a new one, he thought.

But there were more urgent things on his mind. He picked up his coat, which was still on the floor – he remembered their passionate kiss from earlier that afternoon and his need to see John intensified.

Like John, he signalled a cab and told the driver to go to 221B Baker Street. The entire ride, Sherlock was agitated. He was tapping complex rhythms with his fingers and blinking nervously.

'Are you in a hurry, sir?' the driver said. Sherlock looked up, startled by the sound.

'Yes,' he whispered, after a moment of thought.

He arrived at 221B Baker Street a few hours after John. He almost forgot to pay the cab driver before he bolted up the stairs.  
'John?' he called nervously. No response came, and Sherlock was petrified he was gone. What if he moved out?

He was relieved to find John sitting in his chair, his back to him. Sherlock leaned to the wall for one moment, letting out a huge sigh. He hadn't realised how fast he had run up the stairs.

'John,' he started over. 'I wanted to talk to you about… this afternoon…'

'Answer my question,' John said, not looking around. 'Please. Do you think caring about me is a mistake?'

'No, John, of course not.' Sherlock moved over to where John was, taking off his coat as he went.

'Then what the hell was it all about, this afternoon? I don't get it, Sherlock, so please explain.' John looked angry, hurt.

'I'm sorry, I don't even know where it came from. I was frustrated, because this investigation is not going how I planned…' Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to find the right words.

'I understand you're frustrated, Sherlock – '

'John, I love you, you have to believe me. I never doubted that caring about you is a mistake… I just thought, at that moment, caring for Lestrade wouldn't help me. I was angry at myself for letting it get this far – but then I thought, it isn't so bad. It doesn't matter, it only makes me want to find him faster. It only makes me want you more.' Sherlock took a deep breath; he wanted to say it all as fast as he could, before he forgot the words.

John opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He closed it, eventually, cleared his throat and smiled, a small smile, but sincere.  
Sherlock was too relieved to stay where he was. He laughed out loud, and John couldn't help but join in when he heard Sherlock's amazingly low voice. Sherlock took John's hands, pulled him out of the chair and put his arms around him. They both teared up a little, but their laughter was stronger.

Through Sherlock's shirt, John could feel every muscle move. He lifted his hands and put them on Sherlock's back, enjoying the feel of his skin through the thin fabric.

'This shirt is getting rather tight,' Sherlock muttered, remembering his earlier thoughts. 'Maybe I should throw it away…'

'Don't do that,' John said, just a bit louder than he would have liked. Instinctively, he took a tiny step closer to the taller man.

'What? Why not?' Sherlock asked, confused by John's reluctance.

John blushed, and Sherlock pulled back a little to look at him. Why was he blushing over his shirt?

'Because…' John frowned. 'Oh, what the hell. Because of this…' John pulled Sherlock as close to him as possible, rubbing his back and his shoulders, causing Sherlock's skin to tingle. Finally, he put his hands on Sherlock's chest and looked up at him.  
Sherlock still frowned, but as comprehension hit him, he started to chuckle.

'Oh, so that's why I've got to keep the shirt?' he murmured, leaning in. He breathed in John's neck for a moment, pulling himself together, before pressing his still smiling lips to John's.

John moved his hands from Sherlock's chest to his neck, pulling him close. He loved the brief moment before the kiss, when Sherlock always breathed in his neck. He loved the feel of Sherlock's warm lips on his, opened slightly, so he could feel every breath he took. He loved Sherlock's warm hands, his long fingers, which touched him lightly, as if he wasn't sure of how to do it properly.

Finally, Sherlock let go, but kept his arms around John. He didn't want to be separated from John in any way. John rested his head on Sherlock's chest, and closed his eyes.

'So, are you going to tell me what those homeless people told you?' John asked, still with closed eyes. When Sherlock began to speak, he felt the vibration of his voice and almost forgot to listen.

'They had seen five men in total. Lestrade, Moran and the kidnappers. They gave me a brief description of Moran…' he repeated what the homeless girl told him, remembering exactly what she had said. 'They were talking about Moriarty, as well. Moran wasn't afraid of him, but the three men were. I hoped it would be more, but this will have to do.'

'Well, at least we know what he looks like,' John said, glad Sherlock told him everything he knew. Their argument seemed stupid, now. How could he have doubted Sherlock, who was standing so close to him, apparently reluctant to let him go?

'You've been thinking, haven't you?' John asked, knowing exactly how Sherlock felt about the case, and doing nothing wasn't like him.

'I have…' Sherlock sniggered, letting John go. He started pacing around the apartment, and John watched him with an amused smile.

'They only brought Lestrade there for "safekeeping", right? Before they could transport him to a safer place? Sebastian Moran's house, for example. Then why make it so important for me to show up, but leaving only one person on the lookout? Clearly, they didn't know there would be two of us, or they weren't sure whether we would have guns with us. I want to have a word with that man – he said he'd get money from his boss if he delivered me dead. Why would they want me dead?' Sherlock was pacing faster, staring into space. 'Maybe they didn't tell him everything – I know I wouldn't. If I were a criminal mastermind, I wouldn't tell my security guards everything. But that still doesn't explain why they would want me dead…'

'Well, Moriarty wanted you dead, right? Why not now, why not this way? He knows he's not getting information from you – he wouldn't even be interested, I think. It's a game, between the two of you.' John was thinking, not coming to a conclusion. Sherlock was right, he wondered about the right things.

'No, that wouldn't make sense,' Sherlock said. 'He wouldn't want to kill me like that… Oh… Of course… that's brilliant.' Sherlock grinned. 'He knew we would defend ourselves in the hotel. He doesn't care about the lives of his henchmen. He _is _playing a game with us, he knows we will meet again, in the end. Well, I can't say I'm looking forward to that meeting…'

'So… our visit to the hotel was entirely useless?' John walked over to the kitchen, getting himself something to eat. There would probably be no dinner that evening.

'No, not entirely… We found Lestrade's blood,' Sherlock suggested. 'I know it's not much to go on, but we now know he is hurt, but that he does know how to break free.'

'Break free? Sorry, Sherlock, have I missed something?'

'Obviously he was trying to, why else would the blood stain have been on the wall behind the bath tub, like a proper horror film? No, I think he got loose and tried to escape, but his abductors noticed and hit him with a gun. His head hit the wall, and he was probably knocked unconscious. I examined the blood, and I came to the conclusion it probably happened two days ago. That means they were staying in that hotel for at least a few days, since Lestrade's gone missing about five days ago. Perhaps they were expecting me already, perhaps there were some complications…'

Sherlock stood still in the middle of the living area, his hands in front of his chin, his fingers pointed upwards in his familiar deducing way. John looked at him, smiling to himself when he saw Sherlock like that. Some things never changed.  
Suddenly, Sherlock noticed John staring. 'What is it?' he asked, frowning.

'Nothing. Just… you. I love how you can focus on a case completely, and you always have a distinct look when you do it.'  
Sherlock smiled and walked up to John, stopping just an inch before him. 'And what about now, do I have a distinct look when I do this?' He closed the small gap between them and put his hands around John's face. He looked at him a bit longer, still smiling, before pressing his lips to the shorter man's.

Unconsciously, John reached forward, trying to reach the soft curls that were just out of reach. 'Very distinct,' John whispered, his skin tingling where Sherlock touched him with his careful fingers.

Sherlock lost himself entirely in the moment, highly aware of John's presence, and only of him. His hands still on John's cheeks, he stepped sideways, his shoulder brushing the wall between the kitchen and the living area. He leaned against it, allowing John to put his arms on either side of him, so that no escape would be possible. Not that he wanted to, of course.

'John…' he muttered, though he had nothing in particular in mind to say. So he said nothing and continued kissing the other man, who was standing so close to him he could hardly breathe – in good way. If not breathing was ever good. He tried to push John back a little, but the ex-army doctor was too strong for him at the moment. John did feel his muscles tense, though, and relaxed his grip on the taller man. Sherlock chuckled and put his arms around him, trying to feel all of him, brushing his lips against John's ear.

'I'm tired,' Sherlock sighed, putting his hands on John's neck. 'Let's go and get some sleep.'

John just nodded, feeling the fatigue flow over him as Sherlock directed him to his bedroom. After a quick change into their pyjamas, they crawled under the sheets together once more.

They continued kissing as if there had been no interruption. John loved the feel of Sherlock's bare arms for once, instead of either his coat, his jacket or his ever so delightful purple shirt. Not conscious of his own strength, he pulled Sherlock closer to him, more on top of him than next to him. He remembered how much he had actually loved Sherlock's weight on him on the sofa from that morning.

Sherlock chuckled, enjoying John's eagerness and strength with which he had pulled him on top of him. John loved how Sherlock's chest moved up and down when he chuckled, and smiled. Sherlock gave John another kiss, with the remaining energy he still had. Usually, he was never tired – but their argument had completely drained him. Even though they were in bed, Sherlock was still taller that John, and John's toes touched his calves, which left a tingling feeling spreading over his legs.

Sherlock moved beside John once more and held him in his familiar way, and after a few small kisses, they fell asleep, pressed tightly to the other.

* * *

It was in the middle of the night when John woke up. For a second, he thought he was back in Afghanistan while Sherlock was held captured by some terrorists, but then he remembered it had all been a dream. Relieved to find Sherlock still next to him, his arm across his chest, John sighed and lay down on his pillow again, securing Sherlock's arm without waking him.

Intrigued, John looked sideways. He had never seen Sherlock sleep before – he had never even thought about it. He was never tired, or so it seemed, and he was always up before him.

He looked peaceful. He lay on his left side, his face to John. The frown lines that were always on his face were smoothed out, as if he'd just solved a case. But, John recalled, smiling to himself, those frown lines returned only seconds after that, looking for a new case. His perfectly shaped lips were half open, like they were when he kissed him, but there was something different. They were relaxed, and they looked softer than ever.

His outstretched right arm, which lay across John's chest, was relaxed as well. His entire body was relaxed, his skinny, but muscular body. John loved Sherlock's body, how it could be skinny and muscular at the same time. That was why he loved the purple shirt so much, even though he was a little embarrassed to actually say it. But, Sherlock had understood. Obviously.

John moved closer to Sherlock, noticing it was cold in the room. Heavy rain was pounding on the windows and most of the sheets had fallen off the bed. Removing Sherlock's arm carefully, he bent over to pick them up.

He gave Sherlock a small kiss on his soft lips before crawling as close to him as possible, putting his arm where had been moments before. He put his own hand around Sherlock's neck and fell asleep instantly, dreaming something entirely different.

**8. Homeless and Hospital**

Sherlock woke early, as usual, though a bit later than most days. I must have been really tired yesterday, he thought. He felt a warm hand on his neck and his whole body immediately seemed to glow with happiness.

He looked sideways and noticed John had snuggled close. He had probably woken up in the middle of the night, Sherlock thought, because he barely moves in his sleep. He smiled delightedly when he realised _why _John had crawled so close to him – because he loved him and wanted to be near him.

Sherlock didn't even know why he had been angry the night before. He had been frustrated because the investigation wasn't going well, and Lestrade's life was on the line. I had no reason to get mad at John like that… Sherlock closed his eyes and hugged the sleeping man beside him, feeling immensely grateful they were still together.

It took a while for John to wake up, but Sherlock didn't mind closing his own eyes and holding John for two more hours.  
John was pleased Sherlock hadn't left the bed since the first morning he had woken up in his bed. He loved waking up in Sherlock's warm embrace, and looked up at him with a smile.

'Good morning, John… How was your night?' Sherlock asked, lightly patting John's arm. John had a feeling Sherlock knew about him waking up in the middle of the night.

'It was… good,' John grinned. 'Yours?'

'It was all right, yes. I had a dream about you.' Sherlock blushed a little bit, which surprised John. Sherlock never blushed.

'About me?' John started to sit up, but Sherlock pushed him down beside him and stoked his hair.

'Hmmm…' Sherlock replied. 'It was nice. Nothing we haven't already done, but it was still nice.' He grinned.

'I had a dream, too. About us,' John said. 'Two, in fact. Though one of them was horrible – that's why I woke up in the middle of the night. I assume you already know about that. I was back in Afghanistan and you were about to be killed by some terrorists. The other one was nice, though. It was here, in Baker Street, and we were… you know…' John looked down, half smiling.  
Sherlock tilted his chin up with his right hand. 'What were we doing?' he asked teasingly. John grinned, looking into the other man's perfect eyes.

'This,' John whispered, leaning forward and kissing Sherlock enthusiastically. Sherlock, caught off guard by John's uncharacteristic strength, fell backwards on his back, John's lips still on his. He didn't care, though, and responded immediately by pressing his hands to John's back, forcing him to stay where he was.

They continued their energetic kiss for a few minutes before remembering their investigation. Sherlock pushed John away carefully, with a knowing look on his face, and got out of bed fast. He dressed quickly, leaving the last button of his shirt open, like he always did. He put his light blue one on, reluctantly throwing his purple one in the laundry bin.

John got dressed, too, and followed Sherlock to the kitchen. While he made himself a sandwich, Sherlock was already on the case, trying to figure out where to go from here.

'Yesterday, at the hotel, we found a blood stain. The blood belonged to Lestrade; he's been knocked unconscious twice, now. We  
have to find him – he could have serious head trauma and he's lost more blood than I would like. I hope they're taking care of him properly… We know they've been in that hotel for at least two days, probably because something in their planning went wrong. They've transported Lestrade to a safer place, probably Moran's house…' Sherlock looked up. 'Get your coat,' he ordered. 'We're going to talk to the homeless girl again. She hasn't told us everything.'

'How do you know?' John asked, stuffing his sandwich in his mouth, hurrying over to his coat.

'She seemed frightened. They may have seen her, threatened her and her companion. I will try and extract as much information as possible. There is no reason for a criminal master villain like Moran or Moriarty to threaten homeless people because they happened to overhear them. They are insignificant to them.'

'But not to us,' John assumed.

'Naturally not,' Sherlock replied, turning his coat collar up and dashing off the stairs.

They approached the hotel from the back, knowing it was closer to the rubbish bins – the place where the girl and Jack lived.  
Sherlock extended his arm and blocked John's way, telling him to stay where he was for a moment. He remembered the girl had been very frightened.

Sherlock started walking towards the place where he had seen the girl and Jack, holding his hands in the air as a sign of peace.  
When he walked around the corner, he found the girl bent over a body – Jack's body. She was crying, shaking heavily. Sherlock knew she was in shock.

'John!' he called, knowing they both needed a doctor. He approached the girl, clearing his throat to announce his presence.

The girl muttered something in Russian, obviously because Sherlock startled her. Then, she remembered who he was and turned her attention to Jack again. At that moment, John came running around the corner, looking for Sherlock.

Sherlock saw him and beckoned him closer. 'They need a doctor,' he said.

'No… not Jack. He already passed away,' the girl sniffed.

Sherlock looked at John, nodding towards the man, giving him permission to examine him. John moved over, and Sherlock told the girl it was all right, that John was a doctor and that he meant no harm.

'What is your name, exactly?' Sherlock asked, trying to be friendly.

'Viktoria,' the girl answered, not looking away from Jack.

'What happened to Jack?' Sherlock asked next, dropping to his knees beside John, looking into the girl's grey eyes.

'He got shot,' the girl said. 'Those men, those four men who came here a few days ago, the ones you asked me about… they shot him…' Viktoria began to cry again, remembering everything.

'Why did they shoot him?' Sherlock was curious. This wasn't entirely the way Moriarty or even Moran would act. 'Was it one of those three men? The ones who dragged the unconscious body of detective inspector Lestrade?'

Viktoria nodded. 'They came around that corner.' She pointed to the spot where Sherlock and John had just come from. 'I was afraid – they sounded… dangerous.' The girl was struggling to find the right words in English. 'At first, they didn't see us. I tried to be… still?' Sherlock nodded encouragingly. 'They were talking about where to go after the stop at the hotel. The boss, the blonde one, he was… angry. He was yelling at the other men, they had made a mistake.'

'What mistake?' Sherlock asked, knowing he had been right. There had been a hole in the plan, that's why they had to stay here a few more hours. It was a dangerous risk.

'I do not know, exactly. They had forgotten to… get a car, so they had to stay at this hotel longer than they thought. The boss was scared someone called… Sherlock Holmes,' she looked up at Sherlock, 'might come.'

So they didn't want me to come. They only wanted to lead me to this place, after they had already gone. It is a game, Sherlock thought, and not one I'm willing to play.

'At that moment,' Viktoria continued, 'Jack made a sound. It was probably a…' she frowned. She made a snoring sound, searching for a word to go with it.

'A snore?' John suggested.

Viktoria nodded. 'A snore, yes. One of the big men, the one who wasn't dragging the smaller man, he got out his gun and…and…' She couldn't finish – it was too hard for her.

It makes sense, Sherlock thought. Moran or Moriarty wouldn't have bothered killing insignificant people like them, but one of the three men wouldn't have thought about that.

'Did they mention an address? A place to bring the victim – detective inspector Lestrade – after they had arranged a car?' Sherlock was sure even someone like Moran wouldn't have been so stupid to mention such an important address out loud, even when there seemed to be no one around, but he had to try.

Viktoria shook her head, and Sherlock smiled. 'Thank you,' he said, standing up. 'We'll call an ambulance to pick you up, and Jack. The paramedics will get you something for shock. I probably know some other people around town you can live with – then you won't have to be alone.'

The girl nodded, unsure how to handle all the information. John looked at Sherlock, hardly able to believe what he had just said. Sherlock had been friendly to a person he didn't know.

They waited for the ambulance to arrive, asking for a ride to the hospital along with them. I took a while to convince them, but they finally arranged something.

'Why are we going to the hospital, too?' John asked. Surely Sherlock wasn't that concerned about Viktoria?  
'We are going to have a chat with the man we shot,' Sherlock grinned. 'He was the one who shot Jack. He probably knows where they took Lestrade next.'

'Wait, how do you know he was the one who shot Jack?' John frowned, though he was used to Sherlock knowing everything about something just by looking at it.

'They shot Jack from very close. I was able to find the shell case of the bullet he fired, and I'm sure it belongs to the gun he was pointing at us when we were in the hotel. They knew we would be investigating their room, so they sent him there as a punishment, though he didn't know that.'

'A punishment?'

'Yes, obviously. He made a mistake by shooting Jack. It would lead us right to Lestrade's whereabouts. There is one thing they didn't think about, though.' Sherlock grinned, delighted with this new information.

'Which is?' John was thinking along the same lines. Their case had made an interesting turn.

'We did shoot him, but we didn't kill him. He will give us that information anyway.'

* * *

St. Bart's hospital contained plenty of memories for both Sherlock and John, however neither of them had ever visited an injured person there. It didn't take Sherlock long to find out where the criminal's room was. John would've preferred it if they had found him by simply asking one of the nurses, but Sherlock thought that would only result in 'tricky arguments'. They weren't supposed to visit people they didn't really know.

With John running behind him Sherlock quickly passed through the halls, once in a while taking a turn. After no more than ten minutes they arrived at room 7, in the intensive care department. Without knocking, the duo entered the room.

There were two beds there, one of which was empty. In the other one there was a man, sleeping and snoring loudly.

'That's him,' John whispered.

'We should wake him up,' Sherlock replied, not talking any softer than usual.

But John laid a finger on his lips and shook his head. 'No,' he stated, 'We'll only scare him. Don't forget that we shot him, even for a criminal that should be quite traumatising.'

Sherlock shrugged. 'You're the doctor,' he sighed, though this time he wasn't speaking as loud as before. John smiled and stepped a little closer to Sherlock. He just liked standing close to him, it made him feel happy and safe inside. Sherlock immediately noticed John's move and brushed his arms against the other man's. He regretted that they were in the hospital, a public space, in which they probably shouldn't kiss. Not with a wounded criminal in the same room anyway – sleeping or not.

They had been waiting for over half an hour in complete silence, when John suggested buying some food. Sherlock passed, but John went down to the cafeteria anyway. When they had arrived at the hospital he had noticed some lovely jam sandwiches and chocolate biscuits. He had decided that they would make a terrific lunch.

While John was gone, Sherlock was still waiting. He studied the man's face and noticed that it was extremely clean. His arm was in a sling, and his leg was rested on a blue, hospital pillow. All of a sudden the man started to move and Sherlock's eyes shot back up to his face. The man flinched and sat up immediately when he saw Sherlock sitting at the end of his bed. The sudden movements obviously hurt him, because his face cramped in pain. Sherlock didn't show any emotion and just stared at the man for a few seconds. Somehow, that seemed to calm the criminal down.

'W-w-what are you doin' 'ere?' he stammered after a short while.

'I'm here to ask you a few questions,' Sherlock answered truthfully. 'What's your name?'

The man wasn't sure what to say, he didn't trust Sherlock at all and was clearly very scared of him. Sherlock repeated his question, something he didn't like to do, and this time the man did answer him.

'M-m-max. Max Samuels.'

'You tried to shoot me. Why?'

Samuels frowned and shook his head.

'You might as well tell me, I already know the answer anyway,' Sherlock said.

'Then why ask me?' Samuels raised his voice, but quickly looked away and muttered an apology as Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

'You work for Sebastian Moran. He wanted you to wait in the hotel, he told you to wait for a man named Sherlock Holmes, and told you to shoot him. He'd even pay you for it, so you decided to stay. What a mistake that was…' Sherlock stated, a tiny smile on his lips. Max Samuels nodded in agreement but added, 'He never said there'd be two of you.'

'No, he didn't, but let me tell you, Max, he did _know_ that John would also come. He set you up.'

'Nah, he'd never do tha',' Samuels replied, but he didn't seem so certain.

'That's where you are wrong,' Sherlock said, slightly annoyed by the man's lack of proper speech, 'You shot Jack, something you didn't need to do. Your boss wasn't happy about that, and you know what he decided? He decided to punish you. He thought we'd kill you in the hotel…'

'But ye couldn't.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Obviously he and John could've finished the man off, if they had wanted to. However, Sherlock figured it wouldn't be important to point that out to Samuels. He didn't really care what the criminal thought; all he needed from him were answers.

'How much do you know about Moran?'

'Nothin' much 't all. An' I won't tell you wha' I do know.'

'Oh, yes you will,' Sherlock said, his voice raised. He got up from the small chair he'd been sitting on and walked closer to Samuels' bed. The man looked absolutely terrified, but still shook his head and it became clear to Sherlock that he wasn't going to spill any useful information like this.

'I'll ask you one more time,' he threatened with his finger pointed towards Samuels' face, 'What do you know about Moran?'

Max Samuels hesitated, but shrugged eventually and stared the detective in the eye. 'No. It's none o' you're bloody business.'

'IT _IS_ MY BUSINESS!' Sherlock bellowed, moving closer to Samuels' bed and staring at him with penetrating eyes. The criminal jumped but still shook his head. Sherlock clenched his hand into a fist and his knuckles turned white, he didn't want to punch the man but he was making it very difficult for him. 'Tell me what you know!' he repeated. Samuels noticed Sherlock's fist and started shaking, but still didn't give in.

At that point John came rushing in, immediately aware of the fact that Sherlock was about to lose his temper. 'Sherlock, don't!' He warned as his friend lifted his fist, ready to punch. The consulting detective turned around and realised what he had nearly done, he muttered an apology to John and stepped back a bit.

Max Samuels seemed less afraid now that John had arrived, but it didn't take long before he started to panic again. John, who was holding the last of his chocolate biscuits, couldn't really blame him. He tried to calm him down before asking him, in a calm voice, what he knew about Moran.

Samuels trusted John more than he trusted Sherlock, but didn't want to tell him either. 'Why can't you just tell us?' John asked.

''Cause, I told 'im that I wouldn't. Tha's why.'

John sighed and looked Samuels in the eye as he told him, 'Moran betrayed you, he set you up. He didn't care whether you lived! He even knew you wouldn't be strong enough to kill us both. He knew you'd get shot, and he thought you'd die.'

In the silence that followed you could hear a pin drop. Eventually Max Samuels sighed. He looked at Sherlock, then turned his face back to John and started to speak.

'Sebastian Moran is the most dangerous man I've ever met. He used to be in the army, he's seen bad stuff, ye know? He's tough and ruthless, but he knows wha' he's talkin' 'bout.'

'Do you know where he lives?' John asked curiously. He glanced at Sherlock, who nodded, clearly approving of John's questioning. That was something that made the doctor smile a little.

Samuels nodded, 'Yeah, I do. D'you know Russel Square?'

Both the detective and the doctor nodded. They lived in London; of course they knew Russel Square.

'Sebastian lives on Herbrand Street,' Samuels explained, 'Ever been there?'

John shrugged, he wasn't quite sure, but Sherlock nodded right away. He remembered what the street looked like; not too crowded, lots of apartments and a bit… nasty. It was the kind of street you didn't want to visit at night, because you never knew who might live there. Sherlock now knew who lived there, and he was extremely glad he had never passed by at night…

John had Samuels write down the exact address, while Sherlock asked the criminal his final question. 'Did they take Lestrade to Moran's home?'

Samuels shrugged, 'I don't know, but I think so.'

Sherlock got up, ready to leave but John wasn't done yet. 'Are you afraid of him?'

It took some time before the man answered; 'He's… intimidating, tha's all. But he's quite thick, I'd say. Y'know wha' I think? I think he don't make the plans… I think he's not the genius behind all this…'

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this. He hated people telling him stuff he already knew. 'Come on, John.'

John jumped up and followed his friend out of the room. Just before they left, Samuels called after them, telling them to wait. Both men turned around and faced the wounded criminal one last time. 'I'm sorry,' he muttered, ''bout everything.'

'Everything?' The detective asked, 'How do you mean? Is there more to apologise for?'

'I-I-I was one of them. One of the snipers. Moran told me to shoot him,' he pointed at John, 'if you didn' jump. I'm sorry.'

Sherlock immediately realised that Moran had been working for Moriarty for a long time. Moran was his wing man, and the detective knew that they'd have to get to Moran in order to get to Moriarty.

'Come on John,' he said for a second time, 'we're done here.'

They left the hospital in a cab. On their way to Baker Street they discussed Max Samuels. 'He was lying, wasn't he?' John asked.

Sherlock frowned, 'Lying? About what?'

'He does fear Moran. I could tell by the look on his face.'

Sherlock shrugged at this comment, he didn't really care. 'Look,' he told John, 'it doesn't matter whether he's afraid of Sebastian Moran or not, he told us all we needed to know, that was why we came here in the first place.'

John nodded, he knew Sherlock was right.

'Are we going to Moran's house soon?' John asked.

'Tonight.'

It was seven o'clock when they entered their living room. 'Nap for a while if you like,' Sherlock muttered, 'You won't be getting much sleep tonight.'

John giggled, though he knew that Sherlock meant that they'd be working on the case this night – nothing else. The shorter man lay down on the couch, staring at the ceiling. He wasn't really tired. In the meantime Sherlock took his coat off and sat down in his chair, staring at John. He enjoyed looking at him, especially when John didn't notice. He liked how there was always a certain smile on his face, he looked happy and satisfied. 'John,' he whispered in his low voice.

'Hmmm?'

Sherlock hadn't realised that he had said John's name out loud for no reason at all. It confused him. Wherever he went, or whatever he did, John was always on his mind. He didn't care, though. 'Nothing. It's nothing.'

'Come here.' John's voice sounded softer and sweeter than ever before. Sherlock was really fond of John's voice – it was soothing. Sherlock slowly got up and walked up to the couch. The shorter man reached for his face, and Sherlock had to kneel down next to the couch for John to kiss him. Their lips brushed and Sherlock immediately felt happy. He was no longer aware of anything else in the room – in the world for that matter. He felt John's strong hands on his waist, pulling him on top of him. Sherlock leaned on his left arm, next to John's warm body, while he used his right to stroke his face. John's hands brushed through his hair, and then pulled him even closer. For a few seconds they stopped their kiss, because they needed to breathe, but then continued it, even more energetically than before.

John held Sherlock's shirt by the back, compelling the taller man to stay in the same position. Shivers ran down his spine as he felt Sherlock's warm lips brush against his neck. He moved one of his hands towards Sherlock's head, touching his soft, dark curls. 'John,' Sherlock breathed in John's neck, muttering the doctor's name for a second time. John suppressed a small giggle and sat up, pushing Sherlock over. Sherlock, caught by surprise, fell from the couch. He stayed there, lying on his back, laughing loudly. John, who was still sitting on the sofa muttered a small; 'Oops, sorry.'

But the detective didn't even hear him over his own laughter. He stretched his arm out, and pulled John from the sofa as well. The doctor landed on top of Sherlock with a small thud. John didn't care how ridiculous it was, they continued their kiss on the floor. Sherlock held John close in his arms, with no intention of ever letting him go. John rested his body on Sherlock's, who didn't even seem to notice the weight. He felt every muscle in the detective's body, he lowered his head and kissed him, breathing heavily and once again he realised how much he loved him and his touch. Sherlock's hands all of a sudden let go of John's face and back. They both got up from the floor when they realised they were no longer alone. 'Oh, dear, so sorry to interrupt you two!' Mrs Hudson had entered the room. 'I know I should've knocked now that you two are… oh well, I'm here now anyway.' She walked into the kitchen as if nothing had happened.

'Erhm… Mrs Hudson? What are you doing here?' John asked, both confused and embarrassed.

'Well, dearie, I was just about to show Mrs Norris from across the street this magazine, when I realised I didn't have my glasses on me. Without glasses it's harder for me to read, you see. I'm getting old.'

'Old? You, Mrs Hudson? Never.' Sherlock said in his hoarse voice.

'Oh, Sherlock, you can be so charming at times. I understand what John sees in you, you know,' Mrs Hudson said as she left the kitchen, waving her glasses in her hand. 'Found them. I'll leave you two to your… well…'

As she closed the door behind herself, John and Sherlock exchanged a meaningful look. They both knew the moment was over. There was a short silence before Sherlock, his voice still a bit hoarse, asked, 'Dinner?'

'Starving.'


	5. Chapters 9 and 10

**9. Sebastian Moran**

They decided to go by foot, for the restaurant was only a five minute walk away from Baker Street. They were headed for Angelo's place, the tapas bar where they had had dinner for the first time together. Angelo greeted them in his usual cheerful way. 'Sherlock,' he exclaimed happily when they arrived, 'and the boyfriend.' He had always referred to John as 'the date' or 'the boyfriend', but he had always been wrong. This was the first time that John actually realised that there had been people out there, some of them complete strangers, who'd always thought of Sherlock and John as a couple. He chuckled at the thought; everyone had seen that they were made for each other, except for themselves. Angelo brought his infamous Romantic Candle to the table by the window. 'What can I get you, gentlemen?' He winked at them as he said this, meaning to say everything was on the house. Sherlock and John always got a free dinner at Angelo's, which is why they went there so often. John ordered something from the menu and looked at Sherlock, who shook his head. 'I'm not hungry.'

'Sherlock, you need to eat something!'

John and Angelo had spoken at the same time and both fought the urge to burst into laughter. Sherlock sighed and nodded. 'Fine,' he said, 'bring me some food as well. Anything, I'll eat it.'

'Anything?' Angelo asked with a mysterious grin on his face.

'Surprise me.'

Angelo shrugged and walked away, muttering something similar to, 'Alright, suit yourself.'

The two men stared at each other, smiles on their faces. Eventually Angelo returned, two glasses of wine in his hands. He put them down on their table and, with another wink, he was off again. 'Sherlock,' John started as he sipped his wine, 'before, I mean, back in the flat, when you…' He stopped.

'Yes…?'

'When you said 'dinner', did you… ask me out?'

'Did I ask you out?' Sherlock repeated confused, not completely understanding what John meant.

'You know,' John muttered, 'Did you ask me out… on a date?'

Sherlock hesitated a few seconds before he answered, 'Yes. Yes, I suppose I did.'

A smile crossed his face as he said this.

'So this, is our first official date?'

Sherlock nodded. This felt extremely good, he decided. Both men leaned across the table and kissed halfway. It was a sweet, short kiss but both Sherlock and John felt that for now, it was enough. John, who faced the window, didn't see what happened at the bar behind him. Sherlock however did see Angelo stare at their table and wink, again. His cheeks turned slightly pink and he quickly looked away.

Sherlock and John didn't need to say anything to understand how they felt for each other. They simply looked at each other. However, their staring was rudely interrupted by a _pling_ from Sherlock's mobile. He stared at the screen for a few seconds and then whispered. 'We're leaving. Now.' He got up and shouted a short goodbye to Angelo. He threw his phone in John's direction. The doctor caught it in mid-air and read the message:

'_Get a cab. There's no point in waiting. He knows you're coming anyway. X'_

'Hey, Sherlock!' John followed him out the door as fast as possible. 'Sherlock!' But the detective didn't wait for his friend, he simply strode away from him. 'Sherlock, Jesus Christ!' John had to run to keep up with him. 'Who's texted you this?'

'Guess,' Sherlock replied, still walking.

'Moriarty?' John asked in disbelief, 'What does he mean?'

'He means that Moran knows were coming tonight. He'll be prepared.'

'Why would Moriarty warn you?'

'It's not a warning. It's part of his game, don't you understand?'

'No, I don't.' John had finally caught up with Sherlock, who had slowed his pace down. Sherlock looked to his right, just as a cab passed by. 'TAXI!'

'Why did he text you?' John asked Sherlock, who was sitting next to him in the cab.

'Did you bring your gun?'

'Yes. Why did he text you?'

'Because that's what he does. I don't know how he figured out that we know Moran's address, but that's what he did. Moriarty has told Moran that we're coming so that he can put up a fight.'

'But why?' John sighed.

'No reason. He wants to see me destroyed. And this? This is just a test.'

'A test?' John was now even more confused than ever before.

Sherlock shook his head. He didn't know how to explain to John how Moriarty's mind worked. He didn't completely understand it himself either, he only knew that he had to get to Moran's house as soon as possible, and confront the man. In order to win the game, he had to follow Moriarty's instructions.

'Moriarty wants me to face him in the end. He's simply messing with me, trying to destroy me as much as possible, before we meet again.'

'Why?'

'There's no 'why' in James Moriarty. He simply does what he wants to do…'

The duo didn't speak for a long while. They both realised that they were on their way to the home of a very dangerous man, and they didn't know what to expect. They didn't know whether they'd face Sebastian Moran there, or more of Moriarty's men. They didn't even know whether there was a chance of saving Lestrade. The only thing they knew is that the game they were playing was Moriarty's, and all they could do was follow the path he'd laid out for them.

* * *

'John, take my hand,' Sherlock ordered. They were in the street where Moran lived, just around the corner. Sherlock had taken out his gun and John had followed his example.

John looked at Sherlock, not fully understanding what he had said.

'Take my hand, John. Now.' Sherlock looked at John with his bright eyes, conveying another message that was more urgent than his words could ever be. 'We need to stick together.'

John did as he was told, holding his gun in his left hand, grabbing Sherlock's hand with his right. He gave Sherlock a brief nod,  
telling him he was ready.

Sherlock started moving around the corner, John on his left. The street was dark and long. The address which Max Samuels had given them was further down the street, but Sherlock figured they should exercise caution.

They came to the front door, noticing it was already open, as if they were invited in.

'John, around the corner. Watch…' Sherlock put his foot over the doorstep, and they heard the soft click of a gun. One person, Sherlock estimated.

With a quick movement, Sherlock shot around the corner, lifted his arm and, too soon for the guard at the door to notice, knocked him out with his elbow.

'Classic mistake. Guards at the door…' Sherlock sighed and shook his head disapprovingly, then looked around the relatively small hall. It was a bright, open space, very luxury – very different from the outside of the house. Everything seemed expensive, the carpet, the decoration, the chandelier, the curtains. Even the suit of the guard, who was knocked out cold, seemed to be tailor-made.

Sherlock bent down and picked up the gun which the guard had been holding only seconds before. He examined it, then removed the bullet pattern and threw it back. John heard the slight thud of iron on skull and winced, though he couldn't stop looking at Sherlock with concern and adoration. He loved the tall, handsome man in action, but was worried something might happen to him. He decided to pay more attention to other possible guards waiting around a corner.

There was one more room linked to the entrance hall, probably leading to a staircase, Sherlock figured. They must be upstairs, so that no quick escape would be possible.

Sherlock urged John forward, to the other room. Guns in readiness, they looked around the corner into the other room, which was far more spacious and equally expensive-looking. Directly opposite them, a fire was lit in a fireplace, slowly burning the wood.  
Two chairs stood by it, backs to them. Sherlock could tell from the shadows that they were unoccupied, and took the time to study the room. Everything might be of importance later, he thought.

They weren't holding hands anymore, they needed both hands to handle their guns. John felt nervous, but excited at the same time; this was what he had missed, the war, the rush, the danger. But this time, he wasn't in charge of caring for the wounded and sick. He was in a two-man army, with the man he loved, saving a dear friend.

It took them about fifteen seconds to reach the end of the room, quickening their pace. They were getting more anxious by the minute, anxious to save Lestrade and find out who Moran really was.

The double doors at the end of the room led to another square hall, an enormous staircase starting opposite them, covering every wall as it progressed upwards. Sherlock looked at John, and they gave each other a small nod, starting forwards simultaneously.  
They climbed the stairs – it seemed to take ages – and reached the top landing, which continued deep into the house. It surprised John that such an elegant building could exist in such a foul part of London.

Sherlock examined every door they came across, dismissing each and every one of them. He knew in what kind of room they would hold Lestrade, and it would certainly not be locked. That was not how Moriarty played the game.

They walked deeper and deeper into the mansion – they had no other words for it – but nothing happened. It was strangely quiet, there seemed to be no one around.

The hallway eventually branched off to the right, and Sherlock followed the "trail". There were no doors in this hallway, and Sherlock figured they must be getting close. If they were to flee later on, they wouldn't be able to hide in any other room anytime soon.

They reached the end of the hallway after a few minutes, facing another set of double doors. They were slightly open, and they could hear voices.

'He will come very soon, boss. I know he will. Someone told me Samuels is still alive.' It was a high voice, for a man, and he seemed quite nervous.

'Johnson told you,' a cold voice replied. Sherlock and John knew immediately it was the voice of Sebastian Moran. 'You only know that because Moriarty told me and I told Johnson. I know he will come. In fact, he is standing right outside the door.'  
Sherlock frowned. 'Lower your gun,' he whispered to John and he pushed the door open.

The room was huge, and could be called a ballroom, had it not been a study. At the end of the room, a large desk was placed and beside it where three men. The first, the one Sherlock and John immediately recognised as Moran because of the description Viktoria had given them, looked in their direction, hardly alarmed by their guns. The man beside him was smaller, though still bulky and muscled. The high voice which they had heard seemed inappropriate.

The last man was sitting on a chair, hands tied, with a terrified expression on his face. Greg Lestrade looked up and could hardly believe what he was seeing.

'Sherlock! John! You're here, you –' he began, shouting, both delighted and pissed off. He was interrupted by a blow to the head, given to him by the man with the high voice. Lestrade winced in pain, but continued to look at them with a pleading look in his eyes.

It outraged Sherlock to find a friend of him treated like that and he shot the man an ice cold look. He walked up to the trio, followed immediately by John.

'So, you knew we were coming,' he said, sounding as though he wanted to make conversation. The hand with which he was holding his gun seemed relaxed, but he was concentrating on handling it with all his might.

'Of course. You shouldn't be surprised,' Moran joined in on the conversation, smiling at them with a cold smile playing around his lips. He, too, was wearing a tailored suit, and Sherlock could tell he wasn't unarmed.

'I am not. But we have to talk about something.'

Moran chuckled. 'You are every bit as interesting as James Moriarty told me you'd be, Sherlock Holmes. You've come to rescue your… ah…' he gestured at Lestrade, "_friend"_?' Lestrade seemed offended.

'Yes,' Sherlock replied, a bit more tension in his voice, and, John noticed, his body. 'But, if I may ask, why did you take him in the first place? You already knew I was still alive. Why take him, and lure me to this place?'

'You are clever enough to figure that out on your own,' Moran said, but Sherlock got the impression he did not know. This was all Moriarty's doing, Moran didn't know a thing.

'Let me guess. You don't know,' Sherlock repeated his thoughts. Moran's lips twitched, but the rest of his face was like iron. 'Moriarty only told you to abduct detective inspector Lestrade. He told you that was the best way to get to me. But he didn't tell you why.'

'You seem to know him well, Mister Holmes. How do you know what he is up to? He keeps his whole life a secret.' Moran's cool appearance seemed to crack a little.

'I know his mind. It's child's play to figure out his next step.'

Moran nodded, chuckling again.

'Do you want to know why he never told you why to get my attention like this? It must be hard for you, to be kept in the dark. Certainly after all the _great things_ you have done in your life as a master criminal… You were only a puppet, Moran, a _minor _puppet in Moriarty's plan.' Sherlock was angry at the man who had abducted his friend, but he did love this, playing with his mind in order for him to open up. Some time ago, John had called it "showing off".

Moran forced a small grin. 'Tell me. Tell me, if you're as good as everyone says you are.'

'Because there never is a "why" with James Moriarty. I am a distraction for him, a game, someone to play with when he gets bored. And I only play along because I must.'

It wasn't news to John. He had already thought of it himself, but it seemed a bit far-fetched. Would someone honestly be that bored? But hearing it from Sherlock's mouth, it made perfect sense. Moriarty was no ordinary man.

Moran did seem surprised. Maybe he doesn't know Moriarty that well, Sherlock thought.

'How much does he owe you?' Sherlock asked suddenly.

'What do you mean?' Moran said, clearly pissed off by Sherlock and his loyal companion.

'How much money? And don't tell me he doesn't, he once threw away thirty million pounds to get me to come out and play.' Sherlock rolled his eyes. He had been underestimated once more.

Moran looked dangerously angry. 'Fifty,' he mumbled at last, with a growling undertone. 'Fifty million pounds.'

Sherlock heard John gasp softly behind him. Fifty million… Moriarty was persistent on playing this game, prepared to do anything. It unnerved Sherlock, and he was alarmed by it.

'Let's get to the point of this… meeting,' Sherlock said, suddenly anxious to leave. He had a feeling, however, that it wasn't going to be peaceful. 'We came here to fetch our friend.'

Moran let out a harsh laugh. Just at that moment, another security guard came in, visibly carrying a gun.

'Johnson, care to join us?' Moran said to the huge man, signalling him to come over. Sherlock frowned. They were outnumbered, now, and it wasn't going to be easy to get out of it. There must be something, Sherlock thought, his eyes swiftly looking at everything in the room, trying to find a way out. They have picked their place very carefully, he thought. There were no windows, except a few above the desk, but they were eight feet off the ground.

'Moriarty didn't order me to do anything,' Moran grinned, obviously delighted by their superiority, another guard – another gun. 'He didn't tell me anything about killing you.'

Instinctively, John raised his gun. Sherlock did the same, looking swiftly at Lestrade, who seemed to be in great pain. That last blow had really taken much of him and he needed to go to the hospital. He had probably suffered from a concussion already.  
They were still too far away to be able to see him properly, but Sherlock asked John nevertheless; 'do you think Lestrade will be all right?'

John looked at Lestrade for a moment, analysing what he could. 'He needs a doctor, Sherlock, as soon as possible. We have to do this the fast way, there's no time to talk us out of this. What are we going to do?'

Sherlock didn't answer. He foresaw every negative about every plan beforehand, but he had to choose which negative to risk. Unable to reach a decision, he pointed his gun at Moran's chest, who was now flanked by the two security guards. They had also raised their guns – they were bigger than theirs – and pointed them in their direction.

Suddenly, Sherlock got an idea. He moved his arm, directing his aim to the left. John saw what he was about to do and looked at him in disbelief. Sherlock pointed his gun at Lestrade.

* * *

'Sherlock, what are you doing?' John whispered, thinking Sherlock had lost it completely.

'Don't worry, I've got a plan…' Sherlock muttered back. 'I want Lestrade out of range, if we're going to shoot. And we will.'

He lowered the gun, pointing it at the chair, instead. Moran followed his movement with fascination, trying to figure out what he was doing. John thought about it for a second, then smirked and pointed his own gun at the guard named Johnson. From his army experience, he knew that Johnson would be the one who would react fast when Sherlock shot the chair leg. The other one, the one with the high voice, was closer to the chair, and inexperienced with guns. He would react frightened, and Moran would have little time reaching for his own gun.

'When I say shoot – shoot,' Sherlock whispered. He continued to look at Lestrade, hopefully letting him know with his expression it would be all right.

After a few more moments, Sherlock looked sideways for one second, and murmured one tiny word.

'Shoot.'

John reacted immediately, pulling the trigger with his steady hand, and before the huge guard named Johnson had any idea what was going on, he hit the ground, a bullet embedded in his puffed up chest.

Sherlock aimed his gun at Lestrade's chair. It was a dangerous place – a few centimetres to the right, and he would shoot Lestrade's leg, and he had already lost too much blood. He pulled the trigger at the same time as John, and he knew his bullet had hit the target when he saw Lestrade fall down as his chair collapsed. Now was the time to concentrate – he always seemed to miss when he fired on a human being. He pointed his gun to the right and shot the other guard, who jumped at the sound of his shot at the chair. The bullet hit his chest as well, and both security guards lay on the floor within seconds, bleeding heavily.  
Moran, in the meanwhile, had gotten out his own gun, and didn't hesitate to shoot. This was what Sherlock was most anxious about – he had foreseen something like this could happen. What if he turned around and shot Lestrade, instead?

Apparently, Moran didn't think about that. He just shot at the duo, with very precise aims – he had been in an army, Sherlock recalled. He heard John gasp in pain beside him and his heart skipped a beat. He looked sideways, but John seemed okay.

Sherlock pulled John beside him, hiding underneath another desk. He fired his own gun again, trying to at least wound Moran, but he seemed to be getting nowhere. After what seemed like half an hour, Sherlock looked over the edge of the desk and saw that Moran had vanished.

He got up and bolted for the door, shouting at John to tend to Lestrade, who was still on the floor. He ran after Moran, flying through the hallways, running at top speed, but he was nowhere to be found. He must've known a safe route, Sherlock figured. It would be stupid to go and try to find him. For all he knew, he could be in a car already, driving away, probably to an airport.  
He walked back in a fast pace, concerned about Lestrade – and John. John had definitely moaned in pain, although he had seemed alright.

While walking, Sherlock got his phone out of his pocket, and he dialled Scotland Yard. He told the police that they had found Lestrade, but that he needed an ambulance. He also told them there were two dead men, and an unconscious one right at the door.

'John, are you alright?' Sherlock asked urgently, grabbing John by his shoulders. He noticed that John's right arm was bleeding, but he didn't seem to care. His mind was on Lestrade.

'Have you called an ambulance?' John asked, checking Lestrade's pulse and breathing. He was conscious, but barely.

'Yes, I have. Lestrade, how are you feeling?' Sherlock asked, glad they finally found him. He was not going to let him go, now.  
Lestrade opened his eyes, looking up at Sherlock with a scowl, but Sherlock could see a delighted undertone. 'You. Why are you not dead?'

'Long story… I will explain it to you, later. You need to rest. Let's take you downstairs.' He looked at John, agreeing they had to carry Lestrade together.

'Thank you. For coming,' Lestrade muttered. 'I never really believed you were dead, Sherlock. And I never really believed that you abducted those kids. It's just… my job…' Lestrade heaved a deep sigh and frowned, obviously in pain.

'Stop talking, Lestrade, you probably have a concussion and you've lost a lot of blood. It's best to rest for now,' John advised, and Sherlock loved John in action just as much as John loved him.

It took a long time to carry Lestrade all the way to the front door, and by the time they got there, the police had already arrived.  
Paramedics were setting up a stretcher and more police officers helped out with pulling Lestrade on it. When John was certain Lestrade was cared for, he looked at his own arm. It was a nasty gash, made by a bullet which hadn't punctured his skin, but went past it, scraping skin off the side of his arm. Sherlock came over, concerned. He examined the wound, carefully touching the skin around it, but John didn't care. He had been shot once, a simple wound like this was nothing compared to the pain he had felt then.

'Are you alright?' he asked, touching Sherlock's cheek with his good, left arm. Sherlock nodded impatiently. 'You need to get this checked,' he said. 'You need stitches.'

'I will see to it later,' John said. 'You are more important. Did you get hit anywhere?'

Sherlock shook his head, but couldn't keep himself from putting his hands around John's neck and leaning in, pulling him close. When John felt Sherlock's warm breathing in his neck, he forgot all about the pain in his arm, and put his own arms around the taller man who had been so concerned for him.

They were both so glad the other was still alive, that nothing had happened to either of them, they didn't care they were in a public space and there were police officers all around them.

Sherlock smiled, lifting his head a little so he could brush his lips against John's, who was breathing expectantly. He loved waiting for the moment he would feel Sherlock's amazingly soft lips on his, always a bit tentatively.

Their kiss was sweet, and it seemed so passionate and loving no one had the heart to interrupt them. They were completely stunned, of course, because they had never imagined Sherlock Holmes kissing anyone, let alone his best friend, John Watson. But they seemed so perfect for each other, they wondered why they had never seen it before.

Donovan and Anderson gaped at them, confused. Donovan had made plenty of jokes about John being Sherlock's boyfriend, but she had never envisaged them actually being together. It seemed right, though, and she decided to let them be for a while.

John and Sherlock didn't notice a thing from what happened all around them. They were only aware of the other. All they cared about was the feel of the other's lips on theirs, and the immensely happy feeling they got from each other.

* * *

'How's your arm?' Sherlock asked, looking up to John, who was typing his blog.

'It's fine. Stings little bit,' John answered, his eyes on the screen. He had not felt the slightest hint of embarrassment when they found out they were being watched by one whole department of Scotland Yard. He thought they couldn't keep it a secret forever, they wouldn't be able to.

'What are you typing?' Sherlock asked next. He hadn't been embarrassed, either, he had just been amused. Some of the reactions they'd gotten were just hilarious.

'Blog,' was John's short answer. 'I'm writing about us. Tomorrow, everyone in Britain who reads the papers will know, anyway.'

'What are you writing about me?' Sherlock asked with a grin. He loved messing with John like that, constantly asking him questions.

'That you can be very annoying sometimes – ' Sherlock snorted, '– but that you're actually very sweet when you're concerned.'

'Concerned? I wasn't concerned.'

'Of course you weren't.'

John carried on typing, and Sherlock looked at him closely. John's face reddened several times, but continued with a smile on his face. Sherlock was curious to see what he was writing and got his own laptop, not wanting to disturb John by looking over his shoulder, causing him to write less than he would without an extra pair of eyes staring at his screen.

It was the first time he had deliberately looked up John's blog. He had never been interested in it before – why should he read about a case he'd already experienced before?

He waited until John posted the blog, then started reading it. His eyes flew over the screen, taking in every word.  
His own face flushed several times, as well. The way John described their relationship was heart-warming. "_Sherlock might seem like the person you'd want to stay away from, especially in a dark alley at night, but at heart, he is a very loyal person and when his soft side shows, it's hard to stay away from him."  
_  
'It's hard to stay away from you, too,' Sherlock said, shutting his laptop and patting the empty space next to him on the sofa.  
John blushed, but shut his own laptop, as well. Sherlock was indeed hard to stay away from.

'Moriarty ruined our date,' Sherlock mumbled. He put his arms around John, holding him close.

'We can always redo it,' John replied. 'Lestrade's life was on the line. Do you think they'd have killed him?'

'I don't know,' Sherlock mused, shifting into a more comfortable position, stretching his entire body. John lay beside him, his head on Sherlock's chest, playing with the buttons on his shirt. 'It's hard to say for sure. I'd say they wouldn't have killed him, they had plenty of chances already. They knew we had to turn up sooner or later. But how did Moriarty know Samuel had told us where Moran lives?'

'I don't know,' John sighed, focusing on how Sherlock's heart rate elevated slightly when he touched him. He rubbed Sherlock's chest softly, loving how all of his shirts fit him perfectly.

'He might have people on the lookout,' Sherlock continued, determined not to let John show what kind of effect he had on him. 'Or maybe he just knew. It's more like Moriarty… he knew we would want to get information out of Samuels. He just gives us the answer to the puzzle piece by piece.'

'Hmmm.'

'What?' Sherlock asked, careful not to hold John too tight by his recently stitched right arm.

'I love your voice. It's so… low. I don't know. I just…' John didn't finish his sentence, partly because he had no words to describe Sherlock's voice, partly because Sherlock had lifted his head and pulled him closer. Their heads were at the same level, now, and they were just looking at each other, staring in each other's eyes.

It was enough for them, they didn't have to speak.

Eventually, Sherlock touched John's cheek and closed his eyes. John did the same, feeling Sherlock's warm, soft lips touching his within seconds. John responded immediately, his right hand playing with Sherlock's dark curls.

Sherlock pressed his body as close to John's as possible. He shifted back to his position on his back again, keeping John's face near his. John changed position as well, half-lying on top of Sherlock, continuing their kiss with more urgency.

'John…' Sherlock whispered, with no particular reason. He just liked saying his name, it made him feel warm inside. 'John…'  
John smiled, and Sherlock could feel the shape of John's lips change and his cheeks round. He immediately got an image in his head of a smiling John and he, too, couldn't suppress a smile.

'Let's go to bed,' he said, still with a smile on his face. 'There's no point in staying here, we haven't got a case to work on…'

'Oh, God… I'm going to have a boyfriend addicted to solving crimes soon,' John chuckled.

'Funny,' Sherlock said sarcastically. He got up, pulling John with him. Then, he realised something.

'John – did you just call me your boyfriend?'

John frowned.

'Did I? Well, I guess I did… But… you are, right? I mean… you don't mind, do you?'

'Do I mind? John…' Sherlock shook his head. 'You're learning from the best, but you can miss the most obvious things now and again.'

John blushed. 'Well, I wasn't sure – '

'Shut up.'

Sherlock bent down and pressed his mouth to John's, and John could feel every muscle tense as he grabbed him with a force that seemed too strong at first, but felt good as he felt Sherlock losing himself in the moment completely.

'Bedroom,' Sherlock said through clenched teeth, directing John though the kitchen. 'Well, you sound rather urgent,' John noticed, grabbing Sherlock's wrists to prevent himself from losing his balance and falling over.

They made it to the bedroom door before they started kissing again. John was pressed tight between the door and Sherlock's body, though he didn't mind. The feel of Sherlock's body pressed to his was the best feeling in the world – except for Sherlock's soft kisses.

With his free hand, Sherlock opened the door, holding John tightly so that he wouldn't fall backwards.  
'Remember the time you were naked in Buckingham Palace?' John remembered with a giggle. Sherlock chuckled back, remembering.

'How come you just thought of that?' Sherlock asked, turning his back while unbuttoning his shirt.

'Well… because of that,' John answered, changing his own clothes. Admitting things like that seemed less embarrassing, now that they were more comfortable with each other.

Sherlock turned around, halfway through the unbuttoning. John couldn't keep himself from glancing at his bare chest, and Sherlock chuckled.

'I love you, John,' he whispered, turning around again, continuing with changing into his pyjamas.

'I love you, Sherlock.'

John was done before Sherlock, and crawled under the not yet warm sheets, resting his head on one of Sherlock's soft pillows. Not much later, Sherlock crawled in beside him, immediately putting his arm around John's waist. He pressed his lips to John's for a moment, then to his forehead, and John rested his head on Sherlock's chest, the way he always did. They fell asleep the way they always did, sheets pulled up to their chins, dreaming of each other.

**10. The Consulting Criminal**

'Oh my God, Sherlock. Look at this newspaper.'

John sat on the sofa, examining the front page of the morning paper. There was a picture of them, right outside Moran's house, holding each other and apparently kissing.

'Well, you said so last night. We knew the papers were going to publish a story about it.' Sherlock was pacing around the flat, not really concerned. He was thinking about Moriarty, and how he could find him.

'But there is a picture!' John exclaimed. 'I didn't know they were actually taking pictures of us. This is outrageous.'

'Oh, come on. It doesn't matter what other people think of us. The ones which are closest to us accept it.' Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

'Lestrade doesn't even know. He will look at this paper and – '

'We have just saved Lestrade's life, John. And besides, why would he disapprove?' Sherlock didn't understand John's concern. He was more worried about Moriarty. They had found Lestrade, now. What would Moriarty do next? Kill someone?

He must leave another clue, Sherlock figured. It's a game he plays. He is rather fond of games…

John was still angry at the newspaper. 'Oh, come on!' he bellowed. 'That's not even true! "After the threatening shooting incident at Herbrand Street, in which both Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were involved, the duo rushed to their partner and embraced, blah blah blah… crying in delight… holding each other as if Watson had just found out Sherlock survived… More on Sherlock Holmes' survival on page 12.'

'How is that not true?' Sherlock asked, looking up at John. 'We did embrace. I was genuinely glad you were alright.'

'But they make such a big deal out of it,' John mumbled, throwing away the paper. 'At least they didn't put a picture of you and your hat in there.'

'It's not my hat,' Sherlock snapped.

'Oh, right. Forgot about that,' John sniggered, amused by the fact that Sherlock still hated the hat.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but smiled at John anyway. 'Let's finish our date,' he said.

'It's barely noon,' John said.

'So? Why can't someone have a date in the morning?' Sherlock was genuinely confused; he didn't have any experience with dating at all.

'I don't know. It's just – unusual. But then, you're unusual,' John said, smiling at Sherlock's confused face. He loved catching Sherlock off guard – it rarely happened.

'Then let's go,' Sherlock said. 'I know a nice place.'

* * *

John had never doubted Sherlock's taste, but he couldn't help that he was surprised when they arrived at a small bar named Liz&Sis. They entered a small room in which a few people were having their breakfast, while reading the newspaper. John bit his lip, still frustrated by the thought of him and Sherlock kissing on the front page. However, he decided to ignore their curious stares and followed Sherlock to the counter. A young woman, somewhere in her twenties, introduced herself as Hannah. 'I'm Liz's sis,' she smiled, then chuckled. John looked at Sherlock, who had a forced smile on his face, clearly not fancying the bar's name much. Hannah brought them to a small table, in a darkly lit corner of the room. The duo ordered their breakfast, including tea, jam sandwiches and brownies. As Hannah strode off, John turned to Sherlock and whispered, 'Why here?'

'What do you mean, 'why here'?' Sherlock asked John, looking confused.

'You know what I mean. This is not the kind of bar you'd usually go to, is it?'

Sherlock shook his head, 'I may not like the name, I may not like the staff, but the food is good.'

John frowned, still not truly believing his friend. He looked around for a while. The room was filled with tiny tables with vases, with colourful flowers in them. There were a few small paintings hanging on the wall behind the counter, picturing cats, horses and other animals. John now knew for sure that Sherlock had not picked this place with no particular reason. And he also knew the 'good food' was not that particular reason.

'Seriously, Sherlock, what are we doing here?'

'Having breakfast,' he replied calmly. There was some sarcasm in his answer, and John knew right away that they were not just there for breakfast. The doctor rolled his eyes.

'Why are you acting all weird? Don't you like it here? It think it's lovely,' Sherlock said, faking an offended look, but for the second time, John immediately recognised his sarcasm: the detective had just used the word 'lovely'…

'No, it's nothing. I just didn't think that 'Liz&Sis' was your cup of tea.'

'It isn't, but _that_ is,' Sherlock replied pointing at Hannah who came walking back towards their table, carrying a tray on which she balanced two tea cups. The two men chuckled.

'Here you go,' she said in a polite voice, then left again. But both John and Sherlock noticed her staring at them from behind the counter. Sherlock didn't mind, but he knew that John did. To distract the doctor from his annoyed thoughts, Sherlock coughed. John turned to Sherlock once more and, as their gaze met, forgot all about the staring, newspaper-reading people. Sherlock's eyes, which appeared to be green today, followed the doctors every movement as he reached for his tea cup. The eyes still followed John's hand as he brought the cup to his face and drank from it. Sherlock's gaze stayed fixed on John's lips, even after he had put the tea cup down again. John, who couldn't stop looking at Sherlock's beautiful eyes, obviously noticed and knew what was about to happen. Sherlock leaned across the table and kissed John softly on the mouth. The doctor's lips curled into a smile, and he forgot all about the world around him, as he always did when they kissed. He didn't care who looked at them anymore and only slightly flushed as Sherlock pulled away. It took a while before John could think clearly again, but after another long stare at Sherlock, he remembered what had been bothering him.

'We're not here for our case, are we?' he asked.

Sherlock didn't answer him, but John could fill the 'yes we are' in for him. 'I can't believe it, Sherlock! We are on a date and you are working on the case!'

'No, we finish our date first and then we start working on the case.'

'But why _here_? What could possibly be in this bar that has anything to do with our case?'

Sherlock shot John a mysterious glance and muttered; 'It's not literally here. It's across the street.'

John looked out the window and noticed that London was waking up. There were business men rushing down the road, followed by sauntering tourists holding their massive cameras and pointing at every building without a hint of embarrassment. Across the street was a building John recognised. It was the hotel where they had shot Max Samuels and it bothered John that he had not noticed where they were earlier. John looked back at Sherlock, a frown on his face, meaning he needed more information. Sherlock simply smiled at him, then nodded towards Hannah, who walked towards their table for a third time that morning. This time there were tiny sandwiches, brownies and other treats on her tray. She placed a big plate in the middle of Sherlock and John's table and John grabbed a chocolate cookie right away. His mouth full he asked; 'Why are we back?'

Sherlock chuckled as he replied, 'John, you're not working on the case are you? No thinking. We're on a date.'

* * *

They had a lovely breakfast date, and it was more fun than John thought it could've ever been. For the first time ever they talked about things besides their cases, and Sherlock seemed even more human than before. John had never thought him able to talk about 'unimportant' subjects, like the weather or literature. They even hit the topic 'childhood' at one point but, to John's annoyance, Sherlock didn't tell him much. John had always thought he knew the detective quite well, and as others had pointed out, he knew him better than anyone. But this morning John found out that he only knew about certain bits of Sherlock Holmes. The detective had never told his best friend anything about the books or music he enjoyed. In fact, he had never told him anything, John realised. The doctor had simply observed and assumed. Sherlock Holmes had never talked about himself, but this morning, he did. John learned that the man did not like reading books by Charles Dickens, because he thought his stories were boring and he found them highly overrated. The detective also disapproved of Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, for those 'fantasy-freaks' weren't Oxford worthy. At that moment they had hit the topic of childhood, and John found out how Sherlock had never gotten into Oxford University himself, and it clearly still bothered him. 'They said I didn't know enough about literature and that my common knowledge was weak.'

* * *

It was nearly eleven o'clock when the two men crossed the street. The hotel looked even more forlorn than it had the first two times they'd been there. Sherlock started to walk around, looking everywhere, even behind the rubbish bins. 'Looking for anything in particular?' John asked, not sure whether he could help the consulting detective at this point. 'Viktoria,' the man replied and without adding anything he kept looking.

'Wasn't she in the hospital?'

Sherlock didn't reply but John, who couldn't see his face, guessed that he rolled his eyes. John shrugged, assuming that Sherlock knew what he was doing, as usual. He crossed his arms and took in every move Sherlock made. The way Sherlock moved was simply magnificent, and his coat made it look even more incredible. Sherlock walked in a fast pace, on his way to the back of the hotel, his coat once again blowing behind him. John, captivated by Sherlock's movements, followed him without really knowing why. He just wanted to be with him, even when he couldn't be of any assistance.

Sherlock found Viktoria, hidden behind a small wall. She showed herself, though, as soon as she noticed that it was Sherlock and John. Without saying anything she handed the detective a piece of paper.

'Thank you,' Sherlock said politely and he walked past her. John, still following him and trying hard to keep up with him, assumed Sherlock had used his Homeless Network to find something out. He had no idea what, though. Sherlock's voice all of a sudden sounded very close as he bellowed, 'TAXI!'

It would be a long ride to Baker Street, and John knew this was the time to ask questions. Sherlock couldn't ignore him the entire time, and had nowhere else to go. 'What's on that paper she gave you?' John asked curiously.

Sherlock handed it over. John folded it open and read Viktoria's note;

**They met up. My friend is sure it was them. Spoke of hiding place. No address given. **

Sherlock spoke in a soft voice as he said; 'This morning I contacted some of the Homeless Network. I asked them to tell Viktoria if they found anything out. I gave them the descriptions of both Moriarty and Moran, and asked them whether they had seen them. I suspected they'd meet up, quite soon obviously.'

'Moran and Moriarty met up?' John asked surprised. Sherlock gave John a warned look and gestured him to speak more quietly next time, so that the cabby couldn't hear what they were talking about.

'Yes, they did,' he explained, 'Of course they did. Moriarty knows that there are only two of them left, and he knows he can't afford to lose his wingman. Not now, not when he is so close to destroying me. They're in hiding together.'

'But we don't know where,' John stated.

'Exactly.'

Sherlock sighed and ran his hands through his hair, clearly frustrated by the fact that he didn't know what Moriarty's next move would be. John moved a little closer and rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder. 'We'll be fine,' he muttered.

Sherlock bit his lip, but then nodded. He did not necessarily believe John, but having him telling him that everything would be okay, helped. He turned his head a bit to the right and found his nose brushing the doctor's blonde hair. He smiled and gently kissed his head. John put both his arms around Sherlock waist, and hugged him tight. They stayed like that the rest of the ride, which all of a sudden seemed to go by rather quickly.

* * *

They immediately knew something was wrong when they got home, as their front door was wide open. They entered 221B with caution, not sure whether the intruder would still linger there. Sherlock wasn't surprised to find that their flat was a complete mess. Paperwork was lying on the floor, one of their chairs was broken and Sherlock's desk had been ransacked. The intruder however, had gone.

Sherlock didn't need to check to know that nothing had been stolen, Moriarty and Moran had just made the mess for fun. What _was_ the point of breaking in, then?

'Sherlock…' John's voice sounded worried and as Sherlock turned around to talk to him, he saw why. John had moved some of the papers from Sherlock's desk in order to clean up. However, he had found a graffiti drawing underneath them. The smiley was similar to the one on the wall. Moriarty had even used the same yellow paint. Next to it was a piece of paper, pinned on the desk by Sherlock's own knife that usually 'decorated' the mantelpiece. Sherlock recognised the handwriting and muttered; 'Seems like Moriarty finally did something himself.'

_They are so alike, aren't they? Just like us._

Sherlock shivered in horror. He hated being compared to Moriarty. It made him doubt himself, made him doubt whether he was any better. They were both brilliant minded men, but they used their brains for two entirely different purposes. Sherlock solved crimes, while Moriarty committed them. They were connected, the two of them, and Sherlock knew it. And he hated it.

He looked at the yellow smiley on the wall, then looked back at the one of the desk. They were indeed nearly identical, the only difference was the crown that was painted on top of the desk-smiley.

_In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king. And honey, you should see me in a crown…_ Sherlock's hands immediately shot up to his head and he grunted.

'Get out,' he muttered, 'GET OUT!'

John who had been standing next to Sherlock jumped but then realised that something was wrong with him. 'Sherlock, are you alright?'

The man didn't answer him, he just stood there, shaking, his eyes closed. 'Sherlock? Sherlock! It's alright. Just remain calm. He's not here, it's okay. It's _okay_.'

He put his arms around Sherlock's neck and pulled him down a bit, so that he could look him directly in the eyes. Sherlock slowly opened his. They were watery and it was as if all the colour had been drained from his face. 'It's okay,' John whispered again.

He held Sherlock's face in his hands and pulled it just a bit closer. He rested one of his hands on the taller man's chest, feeling his heart beat fast. John had to tiptoe only a little in order to kiss Sherlock. The detective responded immediately as he felt John's lips touch his and without thinking he put his arms around him. The warm touch of John's body made Sherlock feel better right away. Sherlock kissed John a little harder, and John took a few step backwards, and then dropped himself onto the sofa. He pulled Sherlock down by his shirt, a move in which he accidently unbuttoned a part of it. Neither John nor Sherlock minded it, though. John pulled Sherlock even closer, their bodies pressed closely together now they continued their kiss. Sherlock shifted a bit to the right, and felt his foot knock something over. Whatever it was, it landed on the ground with an incredibly loud thud. Both John and Sherlock did not have any idea what could've possibly made the noise, so they reluctantly interrupted their kissing. Sherlock was the first to see that there was a small stone figurine lying on the floor, he didn't recognise it though. He picked it up and examined it. It was a tiny elephant, carefully carved in what appeared to be marble. There was a big crack in its trunk, probably caused by the fall it had just made.

'Hey, I know what that is,' John said intrigued as he took it out of Sherlock's hands. 'I've seen it before, in the British Museum.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'What?'

'It was a new piece in their collection. It was created in India a very long time ago, it's worth a fortune. Or well, the real one is at least, not this replica…' As he spoke the last words he realised what was going on. The object he was holding wasn't a fake, it was the original!

'This is Moriarty's doing, isn't it? He put it here, didn't he? What's the point? Is he trying to frame us?'

Sherlock laughed an ice cold laugh, 'Sort of. He wants us to return it to the museum, obviously.'

'Then that's what we'll do,' John replied determined.

'But, when we arrive, we'll have to prove that we didn't actually steal the figurine, and that's the tricky part.'

'That's ridiculous. You can't prove that!' John exclaimed and then he muttered it again, 'You can't prove that…'

'It's a case,' Sherlock said, 'He's given us a new case.'

'And why would we solve it?'

'Because it'll lead us to him, eventually.'

John sighed, this whole thing was insane, he decided. 'What if we don't solve it? Then we'll never get to him, so what?'

'Like I said before, we're playing his game now. If we don't do what he has in mind for us, he'll become a very nasty player. For example, if we wouldn't return this figurine and with that avoid him, he'd report us and have us locked away in jail.' He ran his hands through his hair another time. 'I need some time,' he muttered, 'Need some time to think.'

John nodded, he understood what Sherlock meant. He wanted to be alone for a while, just him and his frustrations. 'Okay,' he said, 'I wanted to visit Lestrade anyway.'

Now it was Sherlock's time to nod. He was so thankful that John understood him – he always did. He held the man's face in his hands and gave him a quick kiss. Then, he muttered 'I love you', turned around, picked up his violin and started playing.

* * *

It had been another long drive to St. Bart's for John, and it had been a boring ride as well. When Sherlock wasn't sitting next to him, he didn't really know what to do. Staring out the window looking at other cars passing by couldn't even be compared to kissing or hugging Sherlock.

He was now making his way to Intensive Care for a second time that week. It didn't take long to find Lestrade, for John could already hear the detective inspector talking. 'That's absolutely ridiculous! I've been kidnapped for days, been hit on the head several times, there was blood all over the place: I'd say the damage is already done!'

'Sir, I still don't think it's a good idea for you to drink coffee, though.'

'Oh, for crying out loud!'

'I'm sorry, sir.'

A nurse left room 18, making her way down the hall with haste. She nearly ran into John and muttered a quick apology. John walked up to the room, where he found Lestrade lying in bed. 'John!'

'Afternoon,' John said cheerfully, 'No coffee, I hear?'

Lestrade sighed, 'Morons. They think that it'll do damage if I drink coffee in this state. What do they know? Nothing!'

It was hard for John to keep his mouth shut. He agreed with the other doctors, and thought it'd be for the best if Lestrade would stay away from coffee for a few more days.

'How are you feeling?'

'Better. I've got a massive headache and whenever I move it hurts like hell, but at least I'm not longer abducted by criminals. I should thank you by the way.'

John waved his hand. 'It's fine,' he said, 'We were so worried about you. Immediately thought the worst of course.'

'We?' Lestrade asked, 'Oh yes. Where is Sherlock, anyway?'

* * *

_Falling's just like flying…_

GET OUT!

_Except there's a more permanent destination. _

Sherlock's eyes flew open, he breathed in heavily. His violin fell out of his hands as he heard Jim Moriarty's words over and over.

_Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I owe you._

I owe you. I O U. It was everywhere. _Moriarty_ was everywhere. Sherlock frowned, his hands pressed against his head. Sweat ran down his face as he tried to block Moriarty out. The man was mad, completely insane. They were _not_ alike, although they had everything in common.

_You're me… You're ME!_

He looked sideways, at the little elephant on his desk. Could elephants look smug? This one seemed to mock him. He stood up, his legs shaking, and walked over to the desk. He picked the little figurine up and stared at it.

Elephant. Small Ears. Asia.

Marble. Makrana Marble. Makrana, India.

Recently cleaned. Polished. Cracked trunk, probably because of recent fall.

_It's going to start very soon Sherlock, the fall…_

Sherlock grunted again, definitely scared. He needed to focus, Moriarty's words were distracting him.

_All my life I've been searching for distractions._

Shut up! He needed to focus.

John said the elephant was 'very old'. How old? How old could it possibly be if it had never been cracked before? Not old. Fake.

Fake? Why would Moriarty steal a fake?

He needed to check one thing for this. He turned on the news; the most important headlines were the rescue of detective inspector Greg Lestrade, and the elephant that had been stolen the same night. He turned the television off again.

Museum misses the elephant. Thinks it's real, but it's not. It's in our flat, if they find it here, they'll think I stole it. If I bring it to them and prove that it's a fake, they think I stole it and am now returning it, because it isn't worth anything. Dead end.

At that point his phone _pinged._ It was John.

'_You okay? Greg's feeling better, he says hello.' –JW_

He replied right away.

'_I'm fine.' –SH_

Sherlock all of a sudden realised something. He and John had saved Lestrade on the same night the elephant had been stolen. They had an alibi that would be confirmed by everyone in London!

_Good, very good…_

But then, the next question would be, how did they come by the object? No one would believe the truth, obviously, given that they all think Moriarty is dead.

Then the solution hit him. He could prove that Moriarty wasn't dead. Lestrade could confirm it, if necessary the Homeless Network could confirm it, and last but not least, he could show everyone the smiley on his desk, and the letter in Jim Moriarty's handwriting. He took his phone out and typed;

'_I can prove that you are not dead. Take the figurine back to the museum, or I'll tell them the truth. They'll find you.' –SH_

The answer came within seconds.

'_Tell them what you like. You know what happened last time; I'll get away with it. Again. And again. And again. And again…_ _'_

With shaking hands Sherlock put his phone away. Moriarty was right. He _would_ get away with it. Moriarty was playing his best game, and he knew that Sherlock had a hard time solving this problem. How could he prove that he had not stolen the elephant? He had the alibi, but no more than that. Would it be enough?

He would ask John when he got home. The detective walked back to his chair and sat down once more. He was just about to close his eyes when he got another text message:

'_Never compete with someone who has nothing to lose.'_


	6. Chapters 11 and 12

**11. Deduction**

John came home later that afternoon, concerned about Sherlock. He had been really frightened when they found out Moriarty had been in their flat.

He didn't hear the sound of his violin, so John figured Sherlock was doing something else.

'Sherlock,' John called, announcing his presence. 'I've got some news…'

He found Sherlock on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. He appeared to be very tired – but then John noticed a few nicotine patches on his arm. He was still thinking.

'Got anywhere with the case?' John asked, referring to the robbery as a "case" already.

'It's not a fake.'

'Why would it be a fake?' John asked.

'I thought so, in the beginning. But it's not. That scratch, on the trunk. It's real; it's been there for over two thousand years. Look at it, really look at it. The groove, the way it follows the trunk. You can't fake that.'

'What about Moriarty?' John asked next, frowning in concern. Sherlock was acting weird – even for him.

Sherlock stayed quiet.

'The museum…' John said, taking off his coat, 'they contacted us. They want us, to solve the robbery. Why don't we just hand it in?'

'Because they will think that _we _stole it, John, CAN'T YOU SEE WHAT'S GOING ON?' Sherlock shouted, sitting up in a flash.

'Okay, then we won't return it. We will go to the museum and see what we can find,' John said, backing off. Sherlock frightened him when he was agitated.

'It's a game… Moriarty wants us to prove our innocence. I don't know how…' Sherlock sat on the sofa, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. 'We have an alibi, we rescued Lestrade, but that doesn't mean we couldn't have hired someone to steal it for us.' Sherlock seemed at a loss for what to do. John moved over and sat beside him, putting his hand on Sherlock's leg. He didn't say anything – he didn't need to. He was just there, letting Sherlock know he wouldn't be alone.

'We can prove that Moriarty's not dead. But he will just get out of that, as well. If we can't even prove our innocence, we can't prove that he's behind it all.'

John put his head on Sherlock's shoulder. It was going to be hard to solve this one.

'Sherlock, Moriarty doesn't want you locked up. He wants to meet you, in the end, so this case must be solvable. We will solve this case. I know we will – I know you.'

Sherlock sighed. He was happy John was beside him – but that happiness was mixed with a feeling of despair.

'Let's go to the museum,' he said, feeling the urge to do something. 'Perhaps we can find some traces that will lead us to the thief – I'm sure Moriarty himself didn't steal it. It's not important enough. Then, with the crown jewels? He wanted to be caught. This time, he wants us to solve the case.'

John nodded, patting Sherlock on the back. He stood up, reaching for his coat again. Sherlock did the same, but before John could put his coat back on, the detective put his arms around him and whispered in his ear; 'Thank you.'

'Of course,' John whispered back, answering his hug. 'I told you. I won't leave you.'

'I'm going to need to think. You're not helping,' Sherlock muttered.

'We need to leave, then…'

'We are. Right after this…' Sherlock whispered, leaning in and giving John a long, lingering kiss. The top buttons of his shirt were still open, John noticed, and he moved his hands upwards to close them. 'Normally, it's the other way around,' he chuckled, pressing his lips to Sherlock's even harder.

Sherlock smiled, feeling satisfied. There had never been an unsolved case before – why should this one form a problem? It might  
become difficult, but it was certainly not the first time a case had become difficult.

'We have a museum to visit,' he said, giving John one final kiss, putting his heart into it. 'Let's go,' he muttered to John's neck, pressing his lips there, too, before letting go and walking to the front door.

* * *

'The elephant was stolen last night. We don't know how it happened – the burglar cancelled all the security cameras and police haven't found any leads. They recommended you two.'

Sherlock nodded. 'Of course they did. They're out of their league, once again.'

The head of security, who was showing them around, looked at him with a frown. John gave him a look that said, "he's always like that", but he touched Sherlock's hand briefly, letting him know everything would work out.

'This is where it was displayed,' the head of security told them. 'It was behind double glass, bullet-proof, nothing could have broken it – except it did.'

'Well, we know this kind of approach, don't we, John?' Sherlock muttered, looking at his feet – or so it seemed to the security guard.

Sherlock was actually looking for a little diamond between the tiny shards of glass. Moriarty had used this technique before, when he "attempted" to steal the crown jewels. It took him no longer than ten seconds to find a shining piece that was just a bit different from the rest.

He bent down, picked it up and showed it to the security guard. The man frowned, but, as comprehension hit him, gasped for air.

'Sherlock, if this is him – or someone hired by him – he must have left some other clues, other than the diamond. When he tried to steal the crown jewels, what else did he do?' John asked, racking his brain.

Sherlock thought about it for a moment, and closed his eyes when he realised something.

'We've seen enough here,' he told the security guard. 'I'll explain when we're on the street,' he whispered to John, pulling him along by the arm.

The museum was empty, except for them and the head of security, who they left behind at the Indian exhibition, a baffled expression on his face. When they reached the front doors, Sherlock started to speak.

'Moriarty wants to tell us something with this diamond. He's letting us know that this game has been played before,' Sherlock explained, an urgent undertone in his deep voice. 'You asked me, "what else did he do that day"? He wrote something. On the glass. The security cameras have been wrecked, so if the message is meant for us, it wouldn't have been on that glass. He must have written something on some other glass wall, somewhere in this area… Somewhere in London.'

'We can't check every alley in London!' John exclaimed. 'We'd be busy for the rest of the year!'

'We've got the Homeless Network, don't forget… It does mean, though, that Moriarty knows we've got it. He will use it.'

John nodded. It made sense; Sherlock knew Moriarty's mind so well.

'There is another thing he's trying to tell us.'

'Which is?' John asked, alarmed by the hysterical undertone in Sherlock's beautiful voice.

'There will be two more robberies,' Sherlock said, taking a deep breath. 'He will force those cases on us, we have to solve them all.'

'Two more? How do you know this?'

'When he was stealing the crown jewels, he was breaking into the Bank of England and Pentonville Prison, as well. Every robbery resembles a break-in. When we solve this one, the next will come. But we don't know his approach – he might put the actual artefact in our flat. He might have us find the artefact in question. We'll just have to wait and see – we've got no choice.'

* * *

They were working on the case for the rest of the day. They had come up with a safe place to store the elephant, in case someone like Mrs Hudson came in, spotted it and jumped to the wrong conclusions.

Sherlock had taken a closer look at the little marble elephant, but had found hardly anything. There were no fingerprints; a master criminal like Moriarty wouldn't make such a basic mistake. There were no signs of any kind of damage, so the object must have been handled carefully.

Sherlock was behind his microscope at the kitchen table, his hands in his hair, obviously frustrated by the lack of needing to use it.

'This thing tells us nothing,' he said, waving his hand at the stone elephant. 'I look at this thing and see nothing – observe nothing. It's mocking me.'

He wondered again whether elephants could look smug. He decided they could.

'Sherlock, calm down. You've been at it too long – you need to eat and sleep, and take a look at it again tomorrow. Your brains should rest, so they can take in new information and observe faster. You're not giving yourself a break, Sherlock.' John sat in the chair opposite Sherlock, eating a sandwich for dinner. 'Just come to bed with me, we'll start again tomorrow. You don't have to wait until I wake up, either.'

Sherlock didn't respond for over five minutes, but, getting nowhere once again, sighed and stood up. He stretched, and John noticed his uncharacteristically muscled body right away.

Sherlock saw him look, and grinned. He rolled his eyes when he walked around the table, stopping behind John's chair. He put his hands on John's shoulders, leaned in and breathed in his neck. 'Let's go to bed, shall we?'

John smiled and stood up. He placed his hands on Sherlock's chest, looking up at the man he loved. 'You and your cases… It's not healthy, Sherlock.'

'Good thing I've got a doctor to take care of me.'

They both chuckled, walking to Sherlock's bedroom together. It gave them a satisfied feeling, being together, having to other to rely on.

'A good night's sleep is the best way to clear your mind…' John muttered when they finally got into bed, crawling as close to Sherlock as he could.

'Hmmm.' Sherlock's arms were around John, gently rubbing his arms. He gave John one last kiss and closed his eyes.  
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow we'll continue with the case.

* * *

As the morning light slowly filled the bedroom, John opened his eyes, knowing Sherlock wasn't beside him. He felt the slightest hint of disappointment, but he remembered he had told Sherlock he could start working on the case as soon as he was awake.  
He didn't want to be in that bed by himself any longer, so he got up and dressed. He walked to the kitchen and hoped to find Sherlock there, looking through his microscope or checking some information. When he found their apartment empty, however, John felt an entire wave of disappointment wash over him. He decided to make himself some breakfast and take a look at the elephant himself. Perhaps the eye of another person could clarify things, he thought, remembering a similar case he and Sherlock had investigated together.

He sat down at the kitchen table, looking at the marble elephant.

It became clear to him, after a while, why Sherlock had been so frustrated. It was just a stone elephant, with a big crack in his trunk. It was the original, made in India ages ago, stolen from the British Museum two nights before.

John looked up when he heard the front door open. His heart seemed to leap, knowing that within seconds he would see Sherlock.

'Where've you been?' he asked casually when he saw the tall man with his long coat. Slowly, he got up, trying not to look too eager.

'Out,' Sherlock replied, obviously not fooled by John's nonchalance. 'I was asking some of the Homeless Network about any messages written with a white marker.'

'Got anywhere with that?' John asked.

'Not yet – but I'm sure they will find something. It will take a while, even for them, to look in every street of London.' Sherlock hung up his coat, closing the door behind him.

'What will we do in that while?' John asked a teasing smile on his face. He had missed Sherlock beside him that morning.

'Hmmm… let's see,' Sherlock muttered, amused. 'We can take a look at that mocking elephant again – or…'

'Or what?' John took a step closer to Sherlock, who was still standing with his back to the door.

Sherlock chuckled, but didn't answer. Instead, he put his hands on John's back, pulling him close against him, his back pressed against the door. He lowered his head, breathing in John's neck like he always did before their kiss.

John smiled, putting his left hand on Sherlock's cheek. He was glad a good night's sleep had helped Sherlock, he seemed… fresher, as if he'd gotten a whole new insight.

When they kissed, Sherlock couldn't think of anything else than John. Usually, he was aware of everything around him, but when their lips touched, everything around him was John. In the physical way, but he was in his mind, as well. It was nice for a change, instead of the chaotic state in which his brain usually was.

'I love you,' they whispered at the same time. The opened their eyes and looked at each other, both with a confused expression on their faces, but when they understood what had happened, they began to chuckle. Their soft giggles slowly evolved in loud bursts of laughter. John was still pressed tight against Sherlock, and once again he felt Sherlock's chest move up and down with every breath he took.

They stayed like that for a while, Sherlock stroking John's hair, waiting until their chuckles stopped. They moved away, however, when they heard a soft knock on the door.

Still with his right hand around John's shoulders, Sherlock opened the door. Mrs Hudson came in, a bit apprehensive at first, but when she saw that she wasn't interrupting anything important – or so she thought – stepped over the threshold.

'Sherlock, John, I was just – ' she gasped for air. 'What have you done with this room?'

The room was still in its messed up state, furniture knocked over, papers ripped and on the floor, frames and decorations on the floor and broken.

'We haven't done anything,' John explained, while Sherlock hurried over to the kitchen, storing the elephant out of sight.

'Someone's been here, a burglar. Nothing was stolen, though. We don't know what he was doing here.'

Mrs Hudson looked appalled, taking it all in. 'A burglar? Well, at least nothing's taken…' she muttered, walking towards the kitchen, where Sherlock still stood, warning John with his eyes. John nodded, understanding that the elephant must be kept a secret.

'What are you doing here, Mrs Hudson? Is there something wrong?' Sherlock asked, barely able to hide his annoyance. Mrs Hudson seemed to interrupt him and John every time.

'Nothing's wrong, I was just checking all the rooms. I am your landlady, after all.' Mrs Hudson looked at the mess again. 'Wrong day to get robbed, I'd say.'

'We'll clean it up ourselves, don't worry. We were just getting ready to start,' John said, switching his gaze to Sherlock while his cheeks turned slightly pink. Sherlock obviously noticed and sniggered, taking a step closer and kissed him softly on the mouth.

Mrs Hudson smiled at them, clearly delighted. 'Oh right, I meant to ask you – I read the newspapers – ' John rolled his eyes, ' – but I wanted to know how much of it is true. Some of it seemed a bit farfetched for me.'

'Well,' Sherlock began, a grin playing around his lips, 'obviously I was glad nothing happened to John…'

'And the other way around,' John added.

'That, too,' Sherlock chuckled, 'but those journalists did exaggerate. I wasn't crying. Nor was John. I guess you could say that we were just happy to see each other all right. To be honest, I don't understand why people make such a big deal out of it.'

Mrs Hudson smiled, giving the room one last worried look and walked to the staircase. 'That room better be cleaned up before tomorrow!' she called after them.

Sherlock closed the door again, then walked to the kitchen. He took the marble elephant from its hiding place and put it on the table, and started examining it closely. John frowned, looking from the wrecked living room to the tall man looking at a stone elephant. 'We're supposed to clean that up,' he said, pointing at the mess Moriarty and Moran had made.

'Yes. Will you start with that, please?' Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off the little figurine.

John looked at him in disbelief, but eventually decided that he wouldn't be able to get Sherlock Holmes to clean a room. He looked at the piles of rubbish again and wondered where to start.

'Start with the desk,' Sherlock suggested, still staring at the elephant with all his attention.

John did as he was told, sorting out all the paperwork that was spread over the desk, throwing away all the ripped pieces. 'Do you want to keep this?' he asked, holding up the piece of paper on which Moriarty had left his message.

Sherlock frowned, unhappy he had to look up. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the piece of paper, but nodded. John walked up to Sherlock and gave him the piece of paper, looking in Sherlock's bright eyes and touching his cheek briefly. Sherlock put it in the pocket of his jacket, and started examining the marble statue again.

John sighed and went back to work, straightening everything that had fallen over.

'You don't know why the papers are making such a big deal out of this?' John asked, not entirely sure he believed Sherlock.

'No. Why should they interfere with the lives of people like us?' Sherlock was genuinely confused.

'Because you're Sherlock Holmes. You're famous,' John replied. 'It's what they do with all the celebrities, digging into their lives. It's big news, finding out you and I are…'

'Together,' Sherlock finished his sentence. 'But why should they? It's not important.'

John didn't respond, but heaved a deep sigh. He carried on cleaning, while Sherlock continued to stare at the elephant.

What did he know about it?

It was made in India, probably about two thousand years ago – maybe even older. It was made out of marble. It was part of the Indian exhibition in the British Museum and it had been stolen on the night he and John were in Moran's house, recuing Lestrade.  
That alibi isn't enough, Sherlock thought, running his hands through his hair. And Moriarty knows it. Everything depends on that message he left behind. But this is just like the phone call – we can't do nothing in the meantime.  
_  
How hard do you find it, having to say "I don't know"?  
_  
Sherlock grunted. He didn't want to admit it, but Moriarty knew his mind just as well as he knew Moriarty's.

I need to focus. He knows he's getting into my head – I need to be able to block him out. I can't think like this.

He remembered his own words from a long time ago.  
_  
James Moriarty isn't a man at all. He's a spider.  
_  
A spider he was… Sherlock was just one of the million threads Moriarty was playing with and he knew exactly how to keep him in the game. Sherlock was like a fly, a distraction for Moriarty, stuck in his web, and he needed to get out.

There must be a way out, Sherlock thought. There must be a way. This is between me and him, and he won't stop until he has devoured me like the spider he is. But he wouldn't be Moriarty if he wouldn't give me a chance to solve this case.

It is possible.

* * *

'John, come on. We have to go out,' Sherlock said, his coat already on.

It was the next day, but Sherlock had not come up with a solution yet. It bothered him and he had not been able to sleep very well, even though he was pleased to have John in his arms, who had appeared to be sound asleep and dreaming peacefully.

'Oh, right, the Homeless Network,' John remembered, and followed the detective right away. 'Have you been thinking in the meantime? Oh – stupid question. Of course you have.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, both amused and annoyed by John's stupidity. He walked out on the street and waited until a cab passed by. 'Moriarty plays this game very well,' he told John. 'Everything depends on that message. The figurine itself tells me nothing – but I shouldn't have expected it to. That would be too easy playing. He wants us running around London, trying to put the pieces together. Like he said before; he wants to see us dance.'

John was slightly alarmed by Sherlock's choice of words. It did sound exactly like Moriarty – or the image they had from him. But they had no choice; they couldn't keep the elephant forever, and Sherlock couldn't keep himself from solving an interesting case – no matter how hard it would become. If anything, it made him more eager to solve it.

'Where are we going?' John asked when they got into a cab. He knew they were going to talk to some homeless people, but he had no idea where.

'Vauxhall Arches,' Sherlock replied. 'I was there yesterday morning, too, when you were still asleep. They told me they'd keep an eye out and spread the word. I said I'd be back the next day. You know how fast it goes.'

John nodded. 'It is actually very practical, being able to rely on homeless people.'

'It sounds really horrible when you put it that way,' Sherlock chuckled. 'But, yes, I suppose so.'

They arrived shortly after that, telling the taxi driver to stay where he was. It was only going to take a couple of seconds.

Sherlock walked to the nearest sleeping place, where a young man sat, looking up when he heard their footsteps. When recognised Sherlock, he reached beside him and picked up a note, ripped from a newspaper. He gave it to Sherlock and continued staring at the opposite wall.

'Thanks,' Sherlock said, giving him something in return. The man seemed grateful and smiled a weak smile.

'What's it say?' John asked, knowing that without a question, Sherlock Holmes never answered.

Sherlock gave him the piece of paper and got back in the cab. John groaned. 'This is going to be a very long ride,' he muttered when he gave the address to the driver.

'I don't see how that is a bad thing,' Sherlock whispered, closing the space between them. John giggled and put his head on Sherlock's shoulder, closing his eyes and enjoying the warmth of the man beside him.

'I wonder what kind of message he left behind this time,' Sherlock mused, absently stroking John's hair. 'Obviously, it wouldn't be "Get Sherlock"… It's probably another clue, a clue that will help us solve this case.'

'Why would he want to help?' John asked, confused.

'He wants us to play the game,' Sherlock answered. 'And he wants us to play it by his rules.'

'How come you know him so well?'

Sherlock frowned, frustrated by this last comment. 'I don't. Well, I know his mind – it's what I said to Sebastian Moran in his house. I know Moriarty's mind, so it's not hard to figure out what he wants.'

'What does he want, then?'

'Distraction.'

**12. Unarmed**

'The note says it's around here, written with a white marker, somewhere on a window… Probably in front of a shop…'

They were in a busy street around the edge of London. There were lots of people on the streets; students, tourists, shoppers.

'Isn't there anything on there that says where to look? I don't fancy checking every window in this street.' John was walking beside Sherlock, looking up at the tall man with an irritated expression on his face.

'We have to start somewhere,' Sherlock said. 'Let's just look at every shop we pass by. Pretend we're window-shopping.' John sighed, obviously annoyed. He still noticed several people staring at them and guessed they had read the papers. He decided he didn't care, though, and looked straight ahead.

It took them quite a while to find the message Moriarty had left behind for them. It was at the end of the busy shopping street, where there were fewer tourists. It was written on the window of an abandoned shop, written in white – and in pink.

'Pink?' Sherlock muttered. 'This isn't right…'

'It is,' John said, pointing at the smiley that was written underneath the message. It was wearing a crown. 'That is definitely Moriarty's signature.'

'Pink…' Sherlock repeated. He shook his head, storing that away for later. 'The message. He's written… "Fairytale". Why "fairytale"?'

'I think we should take a picture of it and decipher it when we get home,' John said, already taking out his mobile phone.  
Sherlock was still frowning, though he did as John suggested. Deciding they had no reason to stay there any longer, they got a cab and went back home, to 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock didn't stop thinking about it for one second. He was pacing, muttering things to himself, obviously frustrated. He got the other message from his pocket, the one Moriarty had written the day before and examined it. It seemed perfectly all right.

They have to be linked, Sherlock thought. There has to be some kind of link. Unable to figure it out, he threw the piece of paper away, and stared at it as it drifted towards a lamp. His eyes went wide open as realisation hit him.

'John! Oh, this is brilliant, this is gorgeous! The note,' he said, moving towards the lamp. 'Look at it,' he almost shouted, holding the paper in front of the lamp. On the backside of the note, some words seemed to light up, but it was still unreadable.

'We need a UV light,' Sherlock said with a grin on his face. 'Do you see? It's a combination of our previous cases. You've got yourself a new fan, Doctor Watson.'

'What do you mean?' John asked, alarmed.

'Well, where would someone look if he wants to read about our cases?'

John gasped. 'My blog…'

* * *

There was nothing to be done about John's blog, after all Sherlock and John couldn't turn back time. No magical powers for either of them, although Sherlock did manage to surprise John another time. He went into the kitchen and opened several cupboards, drawers and eventually found what he was looking for in the microwave. A small UV light. 'Where did you…' But before John could finish his question Sherlock had already answered it.

'The case with the abducted children! We used a UV light while tracing the kidnappers' footprints. Like I said; it's just another way for Moriarty to refer to our previous cases. Anyway, I stole one of them.'

'Lestrade's not going to be pleased at all.'

'He's in the hospital,' Sherlock replied as if that explained why the detective inspector wouldn't be mad. 'Anyway,' he continued, 'hand me that note.'  
John picked up Moriarty's letter and gave it to Sherlock, who held John's hands in his just a little longer than was actually necessary. Sherlock folded the paper open and lit the UV light, while John closed the curtains, an action which made him giggle nervously. Sherlock, still standing in the middle of the flat, didn't hear him, though and peered at the small paper in his hands. John made his way over to the detective and took a look himself, staring over Sherlock's shoulder.

'It an email address,' the doctor stated.

Sherlock nodded, but kept looking at the note, as if he wasn't quite satisfied with the new clue. 'What is it?' John asked him.

'I don't understand,' said Sherlock, 'what are we to do with this? And in what way is it connected to a previous case?'

'Maybe it isn't…' John suggested.

'Oh it is, Moriarty wouldn't just change his strategy,' Sherlock muttered, more to himself than to John, probably. He started pacing again, mumbling what seemed like random words. John heard him say 'fairytale' a couple of times, but that was all he could make of it. The doctor decided to leave him to his deducing for a while and, without saying anything, he sat down on the sofa. He watched Sherlock pace, and decided that it was a nice way to spend time. Sherlock didn't seem to notice him at all, but John obviously saw every move the detective made. He saw how Sherlock slightly bent his knees every time he thought he had caught on to something, then saw the tension leave his body as the man realised he was wrong. John looked up at Sherlock's mouth, which was still moving although no sound seemed to come out.

After what seemed like hours Sherlock finally got it. 'Hand me the laptop,' he ordered hastily. John, who had no idea where the laptop was, scanned their flat. He didn't see it anywhere so he started to look for it. He found it rather quickly, under the couch. He almost ran up to Sherlock and handed it over. The detective didn't thank him, and put the computer on his desk. He impatiently tapped his fingers on the keyboard, while waiting for it to start up. As soon as it was all set, Sherlock started typing, and clicking. John had no idea what he was doing, for he couldn't see the screen, so he asked Sherlock.

'The email-address, it's linked to a phone!'

John was just about to ask what he was talking about when Sherlock continued, 'It's the link to the other case, don't you see? It's just like the 'Study in Pink' one! The phone! Jennifer's phone!'

At that point John caught on. 'Jennifer's email-address was linked to her phone, as soon we found out her password, we could trace it! This is the same trick, isn't it? The phone will lead us to our latest criminal!'

'Just so!' Sherlock answered enthusiastically.

'But in order to link the phone to her email, we need her password,' John mentioned.

'Well, yes, of course.'

'But we already have it, don't we?'

'Obviously.'

'Fairytale,' John muttered, exactly at the same time as Sherlock hit the 'enter' key on the laptop. The computer made a short noise before the words 'loading… please wait' appeared on the screen. John, still sitting on the sofa, could obviously not see this, but the excited look on Sherlock's face told him that things were going according to plan.

'Where is it?' John asked curiously.

'Where's what?'

'The phone, of course! You ignorant…'

Sherlock looked up at John and raised an eyebrow before the man finished his sentence.

'… Person. You ignorant person. Whom I love very much,' John finished with a grin on his face. Sherlock smiled and swaggered towards the sofa. He sat down next to John and put his arm around the man. 'I'm sorry,' he muttered, his face close to John's.

'Sorry? About what?'

'I haven't been too nice to you in the last few hours and…'

John shook his head. 'Honestly Sherlock, you think _that_ was bad? I've seen worse sides of you, remember? Besides, you were quiet and brisk for a good reason, right? We wouldn't have figured anything out if…'

'You're not mad?'

John rolled his eyes. Of course he wasn't mad. Sherlock could be so wonderfully ignorant when it came to relationships, and John genuinely enjoyed the fact that he had more experience in this area.

'You think I'm not mad! Honestly Sherlock…' he said, pretending to be incredibly angry. Sherlock immediately saw through John's little joke, the doctor wasn't a good liar. 'You have no idea how angry I am, you…'

'Shut up,' Sherlock whispered. He leaned in and, his right arm still wrapped tightly around John, he kissed the shorter man. A warm feeling spread through John's body and sent tingles down his spine. He felt his cheeks turn red, not because of embarrassment, but because of the heat. He blamed his jumper. As Sherlock's hands ran through his hair, John grabbed the man's shoulders and pushed him over. Sherlock chuckled as John dropped himself down on top of him, kissing him with even more enthusiasm. One of John's hands rested on Sherlock's chest, and he could feel his heart beat fast. John loved how Sherlock Holmes responded to his actions, it made him feel… special.

John felt Sherlock lips pull away for a few seconds as he whispered John's name. John leaned forward even more and felt Sherlock's arms hold him even closer. He kissed the detective's neck, who immediately got goose bumps all over his body. Sherlock started to breathe more heavily and John felt every breath he took against his skin. Captivated by the feeling he kissed Sherlock harder, this time on the lips again. For a few more seconds he felt Sherlock's grip tighten, but then his muscles seemed to relax again. To both men nothing seemed to matter anymore, they needed only each other. John eventually pulled away, leaving Sherlock lying breathlessly on the couch. John was about to get up, when Sherlock stretched his arm and put it around John's neck, pulling him back down. Sherlock pressed his lips against John's one last time. The doctor felt Sherlock's fingers shake slightly, as they brushed his face.

* * *

John could still feel Sherlock's touch moments later, when they had snuggled up on the sofa, Sherlock balancing their laptop on his lap. John's head rested on Sherlock's shoulder, who had put his arm around John once more. He controlled the mouse with his left hand, which slowed down the process a bit, but that did not really matter. John was glad that there was no time pressure on them anymore, at least not like there had been when Lestrade had been abducted. For this case they didn't need to save anyone's life, so they could take it a bit slow. That however, did not mean that Sherlock didn't want the case solved as quickly as possible. He was staring at the screen with full concentration. It showed a map of London, on which a small red dot was marked.

'It's not moving,' Sherlock stated with what sounded like a hint of surprise in his voice.

'Of course not, it's a phone. They don't walk do they?'

Sherlock chuckled, 'That's not what I mean. Remember last time when it was in a cab, we could see it move on the map. This time, however, it doesn't move, which means that no one's currently carrying it.'

'Or that person is standing very still,' John noted sarcastically. Sherlock however, took John's last comment very seriously. 'It's a possibility, yes. Unlikely though.'

'Where is it?' John asked. He didn't know London like Sherlock did, and even a map could not always clarify things for him. Sherlock could, and he explained John exactly where to find the phone. 'It's on the edge of London, there are a few old factories there, though I hardly doubt this building here is one,' he pointed at drawing of the building on which the red dot was marked. 'This, if I recall correctly, is an old warehouse.'

'A warehouse?'

'Yes, a disused one, though. I suppose hardly anyone comes there, it's the perfect place for a criminal to hide.'

They sat there for a few more minutes, staring at the screen. John wasn't sure whether Sherlock was thinking about something in particular, he knew he himself wasn't. He was just staring ahead, thinking about the perfect man he loved so dear. That last sentence would've sounded funny in his head only days ago, but now, it seemed completely sane. He loved Sherlock – so much.

'We should go,' said Sherlock.

'Now?' John said reluctantly.

Sherlock nodded and put his laptop away, he got up and walked towards the door. 'If we don't go right now, he might change his location. Come on!'

He had already put his coat on and gestured John to come along. Sherlock had already made his way down the stairs, when John finally got up and followed his example.

* * *

It was quite cold outside, and John couldn't help shivering a bit. Sherlock noticed his cold friend and put an arm around him, hugging him closer as they made their way through Baker Street. John tried to ignore the people staring at them, but couldn't help blushing anyway. He didn't mind being seen with Sherlock – as a couple, but it did bother him that people found it so special. He hadn't read the paper for two mornings, but he was convinced there was more juicy gossip being published about them. He tried to ignore the people pointing at them, some of whom John was convinced had been waiting for them to get out of their flat. Sherlock didn't seem to care at all, he hardly even seemed to notice. He held out his hand to stop a cab that was just passing by. It pulled over quickly and Sherlock and John got in.

Sherlock told the driver the address. The cabby laughed at this and said, with a smile on his face, 'You do know you won't find any nice restaurants there, right? It's a horrid place, full of God knows what kind of folk.'

'Who said we were looking for restaurants?'

'Well it's half past six, most people eat at this time. Thought you'd be on a date.'

John rolled his eyes. Why did everyone they met feel the urge to point out that he and Sherlock were a couple? Sherlock, however, remained calm and put his hand on John's leg. 'We're not.'

'You're not what?' The cabby asked curiously, half expecting Sherlock to deny his relationship with John.

'We're not on a date.'

'Oh, I thought you two were… 'Cause it says so in the papers.'

'Yes we are, but we're not on a date. Not tonight.'

Before the driver could ask what the two _would_ be doing tonight, Sherlock said in a stern voice, 'None of your business.'

That shut the cabby up. Sherlock smiled at John, who was clearly less upset now that the driver had stopped asking questions. Sherlock fished an old map of London out of his pocket. It hadn't been folded up neatly last time, which now resulted in ripped edges. 'We're here,' Sherlock pointed out to John. His long, pale fingers traced a few streets, as to show John the route they were taking. John didn't understand why Sherlock showed him all of this, it didn't matter to him how they got there, as long as they did. He didn't dare ask Sherlock why he was tracing their entire route, afraid it would only bother the detective. Sherlock continued talking about the streets, naming every single one of them, when eventually his fingertip hit their destination. 'This,' he muttered, 'is a curious place.'

John unconsciously raised an eyebrow, not entirely sure whether Sherlock was speaking to him, or just talking to himself again. The detective continued, 'A warehouse? Why a warehouse? Why hide there? It's a place to store stuff, not a place to live…'

'You think the person who stole the elephant _lives_ in the warehouse?'

Sherlock shook his head, 'Of course not. That's the point. But what does he use it for then?'

'You just said so, didn't you? To store stuff.'

'What kind of stu…' Sherlock's mouth fell open, his eyes widened and he muttered a soft 'oh'. John immediately knew he had figured something out, John wondered whether it was because of him.

'I know what he stores, other stolen wares, obviously. That makes perfect sense! If I was to hide a collection of stolen art, I too would hide them in a place where no one ever came.'

John nodded, and hid a smile for he knew he had just realised something before Sherlock had. It was the first thing that had come to mind when Sherlock mentioned that warehouses were usually used to store objects in. He absolutely enjoyed the fact that he had beaten Sherlock, just once. It didn't seem like a good idea to boast about it, though.

* * *

The cab pulled over half an hour later. They had arrived at a gigantic industrial terrain, with two big square buildings. One of which was a shut down factory, the other a disused warehouse. The sun was going down, and it was awfully quiet. It made John feel slightly uncomfortable, but the ex-army doctor wasn't scared. He didn't know what to expect. Somehow he thought this evening would end up in another fight, which could become a problem, since he was unarmed. He had left his gun at 221B, a stupid mistake he shouldn't have made. He furiously hoped that Sherlock had brought his, that way they'd be a little safer.

The two men didn't speak. In complete silence they moved over to the smaller building, the warehouse. John was a few feet behind his friend, which meant that Sherlock was first to arrive at the door. He opened it with caution, not sure what would happen.

Everything remained quiet. The duo entered a massive room, filled with paintings stuffed against walls and then there were statues, some of which appeared to be incredibly old and were probably worth a fortune. The floor was wet, and the place smelled a little funny. John couldn't picture anyone storing anything in such a horrible, dark place.

Sherlock looked at most of the art, definitely intrigued. He was fascinated by the fact that anyone could collect this many important works without getting caught. He took a closer look at some of the paintings, and noted that all works were Asian. Just by looking at the art, images popped up in his head, reminding him of previous robberies that had been on the news. Some of these works must've been stolen at least fifteen years ago, possibly even more. He gestured John to come closer, so that he could whisper into the man's ear what he knew.

'Is this also linked to another case?' John asked quietly.

Sherlock nodded, 'The one you referred to as 'the Blind Banker', if I'm not mistaken.'

'Of course you're not mistaken,' John muttered sarcastically, 'and you bloody well know it.'

Sherlock chuckled quietly and continued, 'These are all artefacts from museums, all of them Asian, most of them Chinese.'

'Chinese? You mean…'

'The Black Lotus, yes, but that is not the point now. It doesn't matter what Moriarty's little references are, for now all we need to do is catch this criminal and prove our own innocence.'

_Well good luck with that!_

Sherlock's hands shot up to his head immediately. Images of blood on St. Bart's rooftop came to mind, Moriarty lying on the floor, his eyes wide open. 'Leave me alone. Get out. Out!'

'Sherlock, quiet!' John warned him, but it was too late. They heard footsteps coming their way, running fast and without hesitation.

'He's armed!' Sherlock warned, 'He wouldn't come running into us that fast if he wasn't sure he had a chance to beat us. He'll shoot as soon as he enters the room. Hide!'

John ducked and hid behind a massive jar, or perhaps it was an urn. How would he know? He knew nothing about art. He saw Sherlock rush towards the other side of the room, getting on the floor behind a few paintings. They could see each other, but anyone who entered the room wouldn't be able to see them right away. Sherlock looked to his left, where he saw the door through which they had entered. He looked around a few of the paintings to his right, and he saw another door that definitely didn't lead outside. It was that last door that swung open, and a man came bursting in. Sherlock had been right, he was carrying a gun, and he used it as soon as he set foot in the storeroom. Sherlock closed his eyes in response, and jumped a little. John however didn't move a single bit; he had heard many gun shots in his life and knew that you did not need to react to every bit of sound. He shot a look at Sherlock, to check whether he was alright, then he looked around the jar and saw a man in a dark brown suit. The man looked absolutely frightening, but not because of the gun in his hand, not because of all the muscles in his body, but because of his eyes. John immediately knew that this man was mad, and that nothing mattered to him but his art and he was simply here to protect his stolen collection with his life. John had seen eyes like his many time before, patients he had treated in Afghanistan had often looked like that.

'I know you're here. Show yourself so I can finish you!' the man ordered. Sherlock and John exchanged a look. John wasn't sure to what conclusions Sherlock had come about the man, but the look in Sherlock's eyes clearly said that they should remain hidden. John held up his hand as if it were a gun, then he pointed at Sherlock. _Did you bring your gun?_

Sherlock shook his head and pointed at John, probably already knowing the answer.

'No,' John mouthed. Sherlock swore quietly and shot John a look that said, 'idiot.' The doctor answered it with a similar expression on his face.

'Come on! I haven't got all day!'

John shrugged at Sherlock and got up from the floor, he held his hands to his head as he said; 'Don't shoot. Please.'

The man hesitated a few seconds but then decided not to lower his gun. It still pointed at John. Sherlock was about to join his friend when the criminal asked John; 'Are you here alone?'

'Yes,' John lied with no hesitation. Sherlock didn't understand what he was doing, but he did not move. His heart beat fast because he feared for his friend's life, who had no way to protect himself. But John stood there, not even shaking and Sherlock admired the man's nerves of steel when it came to situations like this. It was as if the ex-army doctor feared nothing.

'Who are you?' the thief asked.

'My name's John,' John answered truthfully, 'And I'm here to help you.'

'Help me?' the man asked mockingly, 'I don't need your help.'

'They all say that, sir. What's your name?'

Sherlock's eyes opened wide as he realised what John was trying to do.

'Call me Tahoma,' the man said.

Sherlock knew that it was Indian, and meant 'cute personality'. The irony made him smile a little, although he was still incredibly nervous. He hated the fact that there was nothing he could do to help John.

'Would you mind lowering that thing,' John asked Tahoma, referring to his gun.

'What are you doing here?'

'It's okay,' John said, 'I'm a doctor.'

Tahoma raised an eyebrow and whispered in a hoarse voice, 'You can't help me. They all failed.'

'Well, I'm better. I won't fail you.'

Sherlock sighed in relief. John's plan was working. He was trying to gain the robber's trust. Even though Tahoma was still not convinced, he lowered his arm, and his gun was now pointing at the floor.

'How did you find me?'

'Your phone,' John couldn't think of anything else, so he told the man the truth. He didn't think it would do any harm. Except that it did. 'I don't have a phone.'

Sherlock bit his lip. John had just made a stupid mistake. Of course it had been Moriarty who had put the phone there! That's why the password had been fairytale, that was Moriarty's doing. This man obviously didn't know he was being used.

John didn't know what to say, especially when Tahoma pointed the gun back at John's head. 'You are not a doctor. You're the police.'

'No, honestly I'm not,' John said. He still seemed completely calm, but his heart was beating incredibly fast. He shot a look at Sherlock who was still lying on his stomach. 'I'm not the police,' John continued, 'I won't tell anyone about your robberies.'

'Oh, I know you won't,' Tahoma said in a low voice. John knew that the man was about to pull the trigger. He looked to his right one last time and mouthed 'run' to Sherlock. In the few seconds that followed multiple things happened simultaneously. John dropped to the floor as Sherlock got up and sprinted towards the door that led outside. However, the detective wasn't able to make his way out because the door swung open and another man stepped inside. Sherlock gasped as he saw who it was.

John, who had not even noticed the newcomer, quickly crawled away and sighed in relief as he heard a gunshot but did not feel any pain. He was safe, hiding behind some kind of pillar. He wanted to check whether Sherlock got away, but didn't dare, afraid that he would accidently show himself. It was awfully quiet in the room, no words, no footsteps, no breathing. Then, out of nowhere, another shot was fired followed by grunts of pain. What had happened?

John could no longer hold in his curiosity and peeked around the pillar. He could see the entire room from his spot. Tahoma was dead, a bullet had been shot right through his head. There was blood all over the floor. John looked to his left, where he saw a man blocking the door, his gun pointed directly at Sherlock. Sebastian Moran.

John immediately got up and showed himself. Moran hardly even looked at him, to him John didn't exist; he was a nothing.

'Case closed?' Moran asked, clearly mocking Sherlock.

'Case closed,' came the confirming answer.

'That'll definitely please my boss. However, we agreed that this case might've been a little easy for you.'

'Easy?' John gasped in disbelief. Moran ignored him and continued, 'So perhaps, Sherlock Holmes, we should make this a bit more difficult. Jim's playing a game with you and he had expected you to be all in. You don't seem to enjoy it much though, don't put all your effort in, you see? He wants you to give it your all. He wants you to play with your life.'

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed in despair before muttering, 'No…'

Moran sniggered before getting a matchbox out of his pocket. He slowly took one out, set it on fire and showed it to Sherlock. 'This, Sherlock, is your new lifeline. It is very short.' Then, without a warning, he dropped the match to the floor. Moran laughed before he left the warehouse and closed the door behind him. It was only seconds before the floor caught on fire. John looked up at Sherlock, 'The floor! It's burning, how's that possible?'

'Oil. The substance on the floor, it's not water, it's oil.'

John didn't know what to do at first, he just stared at the flames and how they spread across the floor. It didn't take long until the first paintings caught fire as well. The flames were blocking the door, which meant that the duo couldn't get out. 'This way!' Sherlock called out, pulling John along by his arm. They ran towards the other door through which Tahoma had entered the storeroom. The flames followed them, and at some points caught up with them and blocked their way, so that they had to move around it. Sherlock made sure he stepped on parts of the floor where there was hardly any oil and he tried to stay away from the wooden arts. John, holding his hand, was forced to follow the same route. Sherlock opened the door to the other room and swore by the sight of it. There was even more oil on the floor, which would only cause the flames to spread faster and, next to that, it was a narrow corridor. There was a door at the end of the hallway, and both men furiously wished it would lead them out. They ran for it, flames still behind them. They were getting closer to the door but John, who now was running behind Sherlock, could already feel the warm fire close behind him. He looked back over his shoulder, only to find that he had to run faster. As he turned his head again to look forward, he lost his balance and slipped. He fell down into the oil and tried to get up as fast as he could. That was not an easy thing to do, as he didn't have any grip on the slippery floor. He looked over his shoulder again, and knew he didn't have much time. 'John!' Sherlock called. The shorter man was still desperately trying to get up, but he kept falling down again.

'JOHN!' But the doctor had already closed his eyes and hoped that burning wouldn't hurt too much. 'Get up! Come on! John!' Sherlock's voice was unsteady, and he was clearly panicking. 'John, come on!' He pleaded, but the ex-army doctor didn't hear him anymore.

* * *

**So that's the end of this chapter :)  
We're sorry it had to end this way, but that's called a cliffhanger, people. Anyway, more will soon come and in the meantime, we'd love to read your opinions on the story so far ^^ So please review and read more. Thank you :)**


	7. Chapters 13 and 14

**13. Panic**

'Why is it snowing? It's April.'

'It's not snowing, John.'

'Then why is everything white?'

'Your eyes are adjusting to the light. You'll see my face in a few seconds.'

'I don't want to.'

Sherlock smiled as he looked down on his friend. The doctor looked very fragile and seemed even shorter than usual. John's dark blue eyes had trouble focusing. They looked at Sherlock for a second, then looked away, staring at the ceiling.

'How are you feeling?'

'Alright. Why?'

'Don't you remember what happened?'

John Watson frowned, still not wide awake. It took a while before he muttered, 'Moran shot the elephant thief. Set the warehouse on fire. I fell down.'

John's eyes shot up to Sherlock's face again and the detective was convinced that he could see him this time. He nodded.

'What happened after that?' John asked, suddenly alarmed. 'Are you alright? I… I…'

'I'm fine, John. I'm fine.' Sherlock ran a hand through John's hair, just to calm him down. 'The warehouse is no more, but there was enough proof left to show the police that we were innocent. Lestrade left the hospital, so he's taking over again. He obviously believes that Moriarty is not dead, and he'll support us in whatever choices we make. All there's left to do is wait for the next case.'

John studied Sherlock's face. He looked tired, as if he hadn't slept in days. But that couldn't be right, because Sherlock never looked tired even if he didn't get sleep. There was a permanent frown on his face as he eyed John.

'There's a scratch on your cheek,' John pointed out. Sherlock chuckled and nodded, 'I know John, you should see my arm though. Much worse.'

'What happened?'

'Nothing major.'

There was a short silence before John asked; 'How did I get here?'

'Ambulance.'

'I'm in the hospital? Jesus.'

'Don't worry, you'll be out soon enough,' Sherlock said with an encouraging smile on his face. For a few seconds his frown disappeared but it didn't take long for it to return.

'Sherlock…' John said, announcing that he was about to ask another question.

'Hmm?'

'How did I get in that ambulance?'

'There were some people who lifted you up and…'

'Sherlock. You know what I mean. You… You saved me.'

'Of course.'

* * *

John was still not entirely conscious and fell asleep soon after he had woken up. Sherlock waited by his side. He remembered the night before. He had been so terrified. He had genuinely believed that he was going to lose his John.

He had saved him from the burning warehouse, and that had been far from easy but Sherlock was glad to see that it had been worth it. His arm stung a little and he took his bandages of. The scratch was deep and hurt but he didn't mind the pain. His John was alright, and that was all that mattered.

Sherlock stayed by John's bedside for the rest of the day, not quite holding his hand, but touching it, nevertheless. He continued to stare at him, and for the people that didn't even read the papers, it was obvious there was something more going on between them than just friendship.

At the end of the day, John and Sherlock were told John could leave the hospital, as long as he'd slow down for a few days. His burns were minor, but the doctors wanted to keep him in for at least a few hours because Sherlock had brought him in unconscious.

Sherlock had difficulty admitting it, but he had been scared to death. When he had looked around and found John on the oily floor, the flames threatening to catch up with him, an unknown strength had suddenly taken over. He had rushed back, but fell down, like John on the slippery floor, cutting his arm on a sharp end of a Chinese statue. He didn't feel anything, though, he just wanted to get to John as fast as possible. He had picked John up with his amazing newfound strength, and run out as fast as he could.

Outside, he had put John down on the cold, wet floor and checked his pulse and his breathing. Everything seemed all right, except for a few burns on his arms. Sherlock didn't care much for those, for he was already hugging John's unconscious body tightly against him, breathing heavily and trying to keep in the tears that started to form in the corners of his eyes.

John was alright.

Knowing he had to get to the hospital fast, he had called an ambulance and the police – again, letting them know a case had been solved and there were wounded and dead.

The ambulance wouldn't let him on the same ride as John, at first. But Sherlock was persistent and worried, and eventually they let him sit next to John's stretcher. Sherlock hadn't left John's side the entire night and the following day.

'It was stupid, Sherlock, going to that warehouse without guns.'

They were home, at last, just sitting on the sofa. Neither of them fancied going out much, and besides, John needed to rest.

Sherlock still wouldn't leave John alone for more than one minute, but John didn't mind. It gave him a pleased feeling, the fact that Sherlock cared about him so dearly.

'It was. I can't believe I just forgot about it.' Sherlock was holding John, his good arm around his shoulders. 'If we hadn't forgotten them, we would've gotten out of there without any injuries. I shouldn't have been so stupid. You could have died…' Sherlock turned his head and faced John, his eyes full of worry and guilt.

'Sherlock, it's not your fault. I was just as stupid. I didn't bring my gun,' John said, trying to make Sherlock feel better. He didn't want Sherlock to feel responsible for the fire, or his visit to the hospital. 'Sherlock, you saved me. I owe you my life – don't feel guilty. I love you, you know that?'

Sherlock, who had been staring at John's mouth, switched his gaze to John's eyes. His eyes seemed to glow a little more. 'I love you, John,' he said softly. John hadn't heard his hoarse voice in a long time – at least a week. He smiled in response, leaning in a bit closer.

Sherlock couldn't hide a big smile, which made John's heart leap. Seeing Sherlock smile like that always seemed special, for he never laughed like that to anybody else. Their faces were now only an inch apart, their eyes fixed on each other. John closed them after a while, covering Sherlock's bigger hands with his.

Sherlock felt a tingling sensation where John's hands touched his and reached for his face, holding it, with John's hands still on them, and pulled his face closer. Closing his own eyes as he leaned forward, John could feel his pulse go faster. It always pleased him to know that Sherlock Holmes felt exactly the same as the "average" human being when it came down to love.

After waiting expectantly for a few seconds, John felt the soft touch of Sherlock's beautifully shaped lips brush against his. He loved that moment, it was always as if Sherlock was determined to do something – but wasn't sure how to do it. John always gave in completely, which made Sherlock more relaxed, as well, and he pressed his lips to John's with more urgency, pulling his head closer with his hands, running his hands through his hair, their upper bodies pressed together as if they were shaped for each other.

John always loved how Sherlock's lips were slightly parted, and he could feel every breath the consulting detective took become more and more eager.

It was then that the tall man gave himself up to John completely, kissing him with all his attention, no longer aware of other things in the room – or the world, for that matter. The only one there was John, and John was the only thing that mattered. It mattered that he was alive and well and in his arms, and he didn't care if the whole world made fun of them for being together or accepted it.

He was with his John, and he was never going to let him go.

* * *

John woke up on the sofa, which disoriented him, but then he realised they never made it to Sherlock's bedroom the night before. They were too tired – or rather, John was – and Sherlock had decided they sleep on the sofa again.

He found that Sherlock's coat was wrapped around him, but the detective was not beside him, as he usually was in the mornings. Instead, he was pacing around the flat, clearly agitated.

'What's wrong?' John asked, immediately getting up but winced as he felt his burns sting when he threw off Sherlock's coat. He rolled up his sleeves and looked at them. They didn't seem too bad, he thought, he had seen worse – much worse.

'He's given us a new case. He's been in our flat. Last night.' Sherlock's voice had a paranoid edge and his eyes had a haunted look about them.

'What? How did he get in? My God, we were on the sofa – '

'He left a note.' Sherlock turned around and waved his hand towards the television. It was turned on, which surprised John – Sherlock never turned the news on in the morning. His eyes went wide open when he realised Moriarty had turned it on, a note sticking next to it.

_This is a funny one_

John frowned, closing his eyes in desperation. It wasn't over yet.

'What's the case?' he asked reluctantly.

'It's all over the news,' Sherlock replied, still pacing frantically. 'He was here… While we were sleeping. He was _here_…'

John decided Sherlock needed some time alone and directed his eyes to the screen. Apparently, there had been another robbery – but this time, the stolen object wasn't in their flat.

Thank God, John thought.

He watched a bit longer and discovered that a rich family, living in central London, had been robbed. A safe had been opened, but the news didn't say anything about what had been taken. It only said it was highly valuable.

'They'll be consulting us, soon,' Sherlock said, his hands in his hair. 'We'll have to figure this one out. He will force it on us, make sure we don't get out of it.'

'What's he going to do, blame us again?' John said angrily. Anyone who could make Sherlock so upset was an enemy to him.

'No, he couldn't. The object isn't in our flat and telling the police we have it would be foolish – he'd only give himself away. No, he'll make us do it some other way. We can't take the risk.'

John shook his head in disbelief. The man was absolutely mad.

Sherlock kept on pacing, muttering random words to himself, tapping an odd rhythm with his fingers. His eyes seemed panicky, as if he'd just witnessed a horrible murder. John was worried – Moriarty was getting into his head again.

_I own secrecy…  
_  
'No…' Sherlock moaned, breathing heavily, clearly panicking. 'Don't… get out. Get out, STOP IT, NOW!'

'Jesus,' John muttered under his breath, jumping at the sound of Sherlock's loud bellow. This isn't right, John thought. He got up and walked to Sherlock, putting his hands on the side of the tall man's face, forcing him to look him in the eye.

'This is not happening again, Sherlock.'  
_  
Nah, you talk big…  
_  
Sherlock moaned again, closing his eyes. 'Go away…'

'Sherlock, listen to me.'  
_  
I did tell you. But did you listen…?  
_  
John could feel Sherlock's body tense every few seconds, as if he was remembering certain things he couldn't cope with. He had experienced enough of these things in Afghanistan and it frightened him that Sherlock, the man he loved so much, succumbed to those same things.

'Sherlock, open your eyes, and that's an order!' John shouted, panicking himself. He didn't show it, though, for he knew Sherlock needed a stronger person to calm down.

Sherlock, frightened at the sound, opened his eyes, but had trouble focusing. John, still holding Sherlock's head, shook it a little bit to wake him up. This wasn't looking good.

'It's going to be all right.'

Sherlock didn't say anything. His vision blurred, but continued to stare at the shorter man. Looking at him seemed to calm him down a bit.

John put his arms around Sherlock and waited until Sherlock's fast, heavy breaths came more slowly and even. The consulting detective made no move to answer the doctor's hug, afraid any movement would set off his mind in its earlier chaotic state again. John didn't mind. He would stand there all day if he had to.

Sherlock tried to concentrate on John's warm body pressed to his. He tried to block out the image of Moriarty, sticking his knife into an apple, lying on the rooftop with wide-open eyes, grinning, satisfied.

He tried to think about John, giggling nervously, kissing him, running to every wounded person because it was his job to care for them. John, who would shoot everyone who ever threatened him, John, who had been crying at his grave.

After a few seconds his whole mind was filled with every memory he had of John. The love he felt for him was stronger than the fear he had of Jim Moriarty.

No longer caring if his mind would be affected by the thought of Moriarty, he finally put his arms around John, who was still hugging him, his head resting on his chest. Sherlock lowered his head, resting his forehead on John's shoulder. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply, and his whole body shivered.

John gently rubbed his back, knowing it all had to go out. Sherlock kept too much to himself, he realised. There were small outbursts of anger – and love – but he rarely had those same outbursts of sadness or paranoia. John felt Sherlock's hands grab the back of his jumper as another wave of anxiety rolled over him. Every muscle in Sherlock's body tensed as more images of Moriarty shot through his mind. John was caught in Sherlock's tense embrace, but he didn't care. He meant to be a comfort to him, someone to lean on.

It took quite a while for Sherlock to stop shivering, but eventually, John felt Sherlock's muscles relax and his breathing slow down.  
'Thank you, John,' Sherlock whispered, turning his head to the left and pressing his lips to the spot in John's neck just below his ear. 'Thank you…'

Now it was John's turn to shiver, something that was caused by Sherlock's warm breath in his neck. 'There's no need to thank me,' he muttered back, relieved he had been able to calm Sherlock down. It had been frightening, even for him, and he had been scared Sherlock wouldn't be all right; they had just come back from a hospital.

'He knows it, John. He knows he's getting a reaction from me.' Sherlock's voice was soft, but John could hear it was higher than usual.

'Sherlock, let me tell you something. I think you're more scared of the idea of Moriarty, of what he can do, than Moriarty in person. Every single time you met him, eye to eye, you stayed calm and your mind didn't betray you. Now, you've found out that he's broken into our flat and left another note and you freak out like that. He doesn't mean to kill you – at least not now. Not when there are two more cases to solve. Not while I'm here.'

Sherlock pulled back a little, to be able to look John in the eyes. He frowned, considering the doctor's words. 'That might be true… Why didn't I see it before?'

'Because you're an idiot.'

Sherlock chuckled. 'Thank you, John,' he repeated. Then, he bent down once more and gave John a small kiss on the mouth.  
John, who was expecting it, responded immediately and hugged Sherlock a little tighter. Sherlock was so… he couldn't explain; warm? There were no words for it. He was just Sherlock.

Sherlock wouldn't admit it – he didn't need to – but he was so grateful to have John in his life. After thinking he'd lose John, he had realised what he had done to him, having him believe he was dead. For months. He had only been worried for a few minutes.  
Sherlock removed his hands from John's back and put them on his upper arms, instead. John moved his hands to Sherlock's waist, a warm feeling spreading from where he touched him. Sherlock let out a big sigh, his mouth only a hair's breadth from John's. John felt the warm gush of air and pulled Sherlock closer, not feeling the sting of his burns anymore.

They stood there, in the middle of the room, for what seemed like the rest of the day, just holding each other and kissing, muttering each other's name and "I love you"s.

Sherlock kept thanking John, which made the shorter man smile and kiss him even harder.

'Sherlock, stop thanking me…' John muttered against Sherlock's mouth.

'Then you should stop talking.' Sherlock moved as close to John as possible, kissing John with such force the doctor had to step backwards to stop himself from falling over. Grinning, he used his strength to push Sherlock back a little, causing him to take a step back.

'Oh, is that what's going on?' Sherlock muttered, a teasing smile playing around his lips, which were still pressed to John's.  
It became a little competition – both men used their strength to push the other back, pressing their bodies to the other man's. They were enjoying it, until -

'Sherlock, John? There's a new case, we need – oh.' Detective inspector Greg Lestrade stood in the doorway, gaping at the scene which played in front of him. Neither Sherlock nor John had heard him, and they were still playing their little game, even though everyone who'd watch wouldn't say it was a game.

Lestrade didn't really know what to do, so he just coughed, looking around the hallway nervously.

This time, Sherlock and John did hear something, and they both looked towards the doorway, their arms still around each other.

'Oh, Lestrade. How are you feeling?' Sherlock said, clearing his throat. 'I'm sorry I haven't been able to visit you at the hospital. There were more pressing matters on my mind.'

Lestrade was still uncomfortable, but looked at the duo anyway. 'I'm fine, I feel great. I should thank you for saving me, by the way.'

'Greg, you thanked us a million times already!' John said, his scarlet cheeks already turning pink again. He didn't mind, when he actually thought about it. He assumed it must be weird, walking into two of your friends… doing something.

'Yeah, well, without you two, I would probably not be here today.'

Sherlock smiled, taking one arm off John and gestured towards a seat. 'Do you want some tea?'

Lestrade held up a Starbucks coffee cup, and nodded towards the front door. 'There's a new case. They asked for you specifically.'

Sherlock looked at John briefly, and a word of understanding passed between them. 'We'll be there right away. I assume it's about the robbery?' Sherlock asked, more out of politeness.

Lestrade nodded. 'So you'll come?'

'We'll be right behind. I've got to check something, first.' Sherlock walked over to the television, apparently no longer focusing on Lestrade.

John raised his eyebrows and told Lestrade not to wait for them. He knew from experience Sherlock always wanted to prepare for cases – especially if Moriarty had anything to do with this.

After Lestrade left, John went to stand behind the tall consulting detective, and put his right hand on his back.

'Are you ready?' he asked, making sure Sherlock wouldn't break down in front of Lestrade and some other cops.

Sherlock nodded, stuffing the note that stuck to the television in his chest pocket. 'It's important we keep these,' he said, patting his chest.

John nodded. The other note had proved to be a clue, as well.

'Let's go,' Sherlock said, smiling at John, a harsh, determined look in his eyes. If he was going to meet Moriarty, he was going to meet him halfway.

**14. The Robbed Vault**

They took a cab to the house – or rather, mansion – of the rich family, which was in central London, so it wasn't a very long ride. Sherlock took the time they had to explain what hadn't been on the news John had seen and what they might expect.

'The family's been robbed – on the news, they didn't say anything about what had been stolen. We won't know until we get there, but it is of great value. It was kept in the safe, which is located in the centre of the house, probably in the basement. We're going to have to take a look around the safe, obviously, but I think it would be wise to look around the entire house, as well. We can't take any risks with Moriarty.'

John nodded, taking in all the information with ease. Listening to Sherlock's captivating voice always made it easier.

'It's going to be a hard one. Even harder than the last. We had one other clue – because we knew what he had been doing in the Tower of London. The only thing we know about this robbery is that it probably refers to the Bank of England, which means – '

'That the next one will refer to Pentonville Prison,' John finished. 'Because this one has a safe, or a vault, which has been busted.'  
Sherlock nodded. 'I'm afraid we don't have any more leads. We'll just have to wait and see.'

'And observe,' John said, looking sideways at the consulting detective, whose face was partly hidden by his turned up collar. The tall, handsome man chuckled, looking out the window, although his mind was on John and how he had been able to calm him down that morning.

He didn't really know what had happened. It was as if Moriarty had invaded his mind and he could think of nothing else. But John had been there, John had comforted him and had the patience to wait until he had pulled himself together. No, John had pulled him together. Sherlock was sure he wouldn't have been able to if John hadn't been there.

He moved his hand to the right, brushing over the small space between them, until he felt the soft skin of John's hand touching his. A bit tentatively, he lifted his long fingers and put them over John's, still looking through the window, but feeling the blood rise to his face nevertheless.

John did look around, smiling at Sherlock's pink cheeks. He had no intention of moving his hand away – Sherlock's touch made him feel warm inside.

Eventually, they had to let go, for they had arrived at their next crime scene.

* * *

'Tell us what happened,' Sherlock asked the owner of the house, a man called Mr Wilson. He was a short, morbidly obese man, but clearly rich. His suit was tailored and his shoes handmade, probably on order, Sherlock thought. His nails were manicured, and the few remaining hairs on his round head looked properly cared for.

They stood in the study, a relatively large, richly decorated room. Sherlock was inspecting every corner of the room, from the mantelpiece to the windows to underneath the sofa. John loved how Sherlock couldn't sit still, even if it meant it wasn't decent.

'My wife and I had gone out, you see, my business company had organised a dinner – '

'Boring,' Sherlock muttered. 'Skip to when you came home and found your safe empty.'

'I… of course,' Mr Wilson stammered, looking from John to Sherlock, who was now studying an address book, which he had found in a drawer of a cabinet at the end of the room, opposite the windows. 'Well, we got home – '

'Obviously,' Sherlock muttered.

' – and the front door was wide open. The house seemed alright, but we didn't dare go in, so we called the police. When they couldn't find anything, my wife suggested asking for you.'

'That's all?' John asked. 'You know nothing more?'

Mr Wilson shook his head, obviously shocked by Sherlock's behaviour.

'Okay…' John sighed. 'Thank you for your help, I think we'll go from here. I assume we can just walk around freely and investigate what we can?'

The man nodded, shot one last look at Sherlock and walked through the door, probably going to talk to some other policemen.

'Okay, Sherlock. I know you've got something.' John turned to face the other man, who was still looking through the little book, turning the pages with quick motions. 'I think Mr Wilson might know a little bit more. A door, left wide open? Unlikely, very… unlikely,' Sherlock said, tapping with his index finger on a certain page, obviously pleased about something. 'A robber who is so skilled he could break into a highly protected vault without leaving any traces the police can find wouldn't leave the front door wide open, unless…'

'Unless?'

'Unless he didn't go through that door. It would be a way to confuse the police, reducing their ability to consider other ways for him to get in. Then how did he get in…?'

'Sherlock, what have you found in that address book?' John asked, trying to get a closer look.

'On the day they had that dinner party – last night – Mr Wilson had an appointment with someone called Sebastian Moran.'

Sherlock held up the address book, in which a small piece of paper was stuck, on it a phone number and the initials S.M.

'How do you know those initials mean Sebastian Moran?' John asked.

'Because it is written with the same ink as our first note from Moriarty. We know Moran had been with him when they broke in and demolished our flat. I was so desperate that I took a sample from that ink, and started to examine it.' Sherlock took a deep breath and started explaining. 'You know that ink, these days, consists of water, colorants and some other things that can change depending on the type of ink one uses. But this ink was far more special and rare – no one even makes it these days. It was made and used in India since around four centuries before Christ. It was called _masi_, and it consisted of burnt bones, tar, pitch – which is a substance made out of plants, for example – and some other components. I found all of these in Moriarty's note and this,' Sherlock shook the little book again, 'looks exactly the same. I have to take a sample to be sure, but I'm quite sure.'

John, who had been listening with great interest, suddenly realised Sherlock did know a lot of things, and respected him for it.

'Are they referring to the last robbery, The Indian Elephant, as a case already? Because of the Indian ink? Sebastian Moran has got something to do with all this. Could he be the thief? Or some of his security guards?'

'Then why would Mr Wilson have an appointment with him? I think he planned that dinner to cause a bit of distraction for his wife, and maybe his colleagues. He couldn't have met him in person, because we saw Moran in that warehouse – ah…' Sherlock closed his eyes, a big grin spreading across his face. 'The phone. Look, the phone number. I'm willing to bet that's the phone that was linked to the email and the password – Moriarty probably changed it to 'fairytale' – and Moran came to fetch it so he could talk to Mr Wilson. Now, we need to figure out _why _they had to talk.'

'Let's take a look at the safe, first. Did Mr Wilson say anything about what was stolen?'

'No, but I'm sure Mrs Wilson will.'

They left the study and strode through the darkly lit hallways, which were decorated with paintings, and photos.

'I wonder why nothing else was taken,' John mused, looking around at all the expensive stuff hanging around.

'We won't know that until we figure out what _was _taken.'

The vault was located in the basement, which was just as expensive-looking. There were a few police men, and a few from the forensics department. Sherlock suppressed a moan when he saw Anderson.

'You here?' he sneered, glaring at the duo.

'I could ask you the same thing,' Sherlock said with raised eyebrows.

'We are looking for fingerprints and traces of DNA,' Anderson said, 'something that's useful.'  
Sherlock just rolled his eyes and started walking towards a middle-aged woman, who was dressed in the same kind of clothes as her husband – expensive, tailor-made. 'Mrs Wilson,' Sherlock said. 'We would like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind.'

'No, not at all,' she said.

'What was in the vault, what's been stolen?' Sherlock asked, waving his hands towards the open safe.

'Well, there was some money in it, a few heirlooms, handed over generation by generation…' Mrs Wilson frowned, trying to remember everything that had been there. 'But the most important thing – something we were terrified we would lose – was…' She paused, hesitating whether she should tell the two strange men. Eventually she sighed and said in a quiet voice, as if she didn't want anyone to hear her, 'A dagger.'

Sherlock's facial expression changed very fast. He looked up at the woman with a certain smile on his face. 'Why did you keep a _dagger_ in your vault?' John asked.

Before Mrs Wilson could answer him, Sherlock had already taken over. 'Let me guess, it has been in your wealthy, proud family for many generations? Obviously. All families of your sort have one of these… objects. Tell me, how much was it worth?'

'You should see my husband for that,' Mrs Wilson muttered a little startled by Sherlock's sudden enthusiasm, 'He takes care of our finances. He'll be able to tell you the exact price. All I know is that it's worth a lot of money. Not very surprising, of course.'

'Not surprising? How?' Sherlock asked curiously.

'It was very old.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, 'An old object isn't necessarily valuable. No, there's more.'

Mrs Wilson nodded, clearly impressed by Sherlock's small deduction. 'Rubies,' she whispered, 'embedded in its hilt.'

'Rubies, you say? You've made a thief very happy last night, Mrs Wilson!' Sherlock said, with a devious grin on his face.

Mrs Wilson shrieked a little at Sherlock's last words, then she burst out in tears. She buried her face in her hands and, with shaking shoulders, listened to Sherlock's next question.

'Tell me, how did security fail you? I assume such valuable objects were protected carefully?'

The woman shook her head and, still sobbing, she muttered a few unintelligible words. Sherlock, however, didn't seem to care at all and was about to ask his question again, hoping that this time he would get an answer, but John interrupted him. 'Why don't we go and interview Mr Wilson again, and leave Mrs Wilson alone for a few moments?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, 'B-b-but,' he mumbled confused, 'I wasn't done yet.'

The woman let out another cry and looked up at the duo. Tears were streaming down her face.

'Sherlock...' John whispered, 'Trust me, let's go.'

* * *

Sherlock and John left Mrs Wilson to her sadness (and to Anderson and his team of forensics). They decided to investigate the mansion, while looking for Mr Wilson. Sherlock was captivated by its size and made sarcastic comments about everything he thought was 'only suitable for people with too much money'. John was fascinated by the fact that there were no people in the mansion whatsoever. He had expected to run into a maid, or even a butler for that matter, but it appeared as if he and Sherlock were the only ones there. He knew they weren't, for Mr Wilson had to be around somewhere, but even after walking around for nearly twenty minutes, they still hadn't found him.

'You don't think he left, do you?' John asked Sherlock when they found themselves in a third, and also empty, tea room. Sherlock simply shook his head and walked towards one of the windows. He looked out over the massive gardens. There were a few police men walking across the grass, among them was Lestrade, clearly bossing them around. Sherlock shut his eyes and frowned. He was going over everything he had heard this morning again. 'Mr Wilson is clearly lying about something. Moran is part of it, obviously. They met up, or perhaps they only talked over the phone. That last would've been easier.'

'Perhaps Moran was blackmailing him?' John suggested, 'Maybe he threatened Mr Wilson that he would kill him if he didn't open the vault for him.'

'That doesn't make sense. Why would Wilson have Moran's phone number in his address book as if he meant to call _him_?'

John shrugged, Sherlock was on fire and once again, right about everything he said. John still had no idea how the man did it. Everything the detective said always made perfect sense, but John himself couldn't have come up with any of it. The doctor walked up Sherlock and leaned against him, his head resting on his shoulder. He looked up at Sherlock's face and saw the detectives lips curl into a small, but perfect, smile. He put his arm around John, and the two of them stood still for a while, staring at the police who were still wandering around the Wilsons' gardens. Sherlock, in the meanwhile, continued his deduction. 'We really need to speak to either one of the Wilsons again. Mr Wilson is clearly hiding information from us, and Mrs Wilson probably knows something as well. I highly doubt that she doesn't know about him dealing with Moran. But then again, she also doesn't know about the fact that he's cheating on her.'

'He's cheating on her? Sherlock, how did you…'

'Address book,' Sherlock replied curtly. John sighed, waiting for Sherlock to add 'obviously' to that last answer. The detective didn't, instead he looked down and John and smiled at him. It was no more than a sweet grin, but it made John feel warm and complete.

'That poor woman,' John muttered to himself.

'Yes, very sad indeed, given that's she is still stuck in the basement with Anderson,' Sherlock agreed. John chuckled.

The two men were no longer in the mansion, but were walking over the green grass of the Wilsons gardens. Even though they were in central London, to John it seemed as if they were in a small town outside the big city. There were no other houses inside, and there were no sounds of traffic.

Lestrade walked up to the duo as soon as they caught his eye. 'Anything interesting?' he asked them. Sherlock shook his head, 'Hardly anything so far. I'll let you know when we identify the thief.'

'I'd rather have you tell me all you know now.'

Sherlock sighed and shot a quick look at John before he said, 'You're going to need pen and paper for this.'

Lestrade didn't seem pleased, but listened to Sherlock's advice and called for Donovan to get him a piece of paper. When she returned, looking angry and offended, Lestrade fished a pen out the pocket on his jacket. 'Ready,' he said, meaning that Sherlock could start talking. Sherlock had an excited look on his face and, as practically always, he spoke incredibly fast. He told Lestrade no more than he had told John earlier.

'So he's cheating on her and she doesn't know?' The detective inspector repeated, while attempting to scribble down Sherlock's exact words.

'And do you really think he and Moran…' But Greg Lestrade didn't get to finish his sentence. Mrs Wilson came rushing out of her house, her tailored jacket flapping behind her. 'Oh, good!' she called out, 'You are still here!'

The three men all nodded in confirmation and Lestrade immediately stepped in front of Sherlock and John as to say he was the boss. 'Can we help you with anything?'

Mrs Wilson quickly introduced herself to Lestrade and then turned to Sherlock, which resulted in a bothered Lestrade. John suspected that he was annoyed by Sherlock taking over. Lestrade knew he needed him, though, so he would never complain, but the detective inspector sometimes missed being the most important person in the room. Or garden, really.

'I was a little upset just now, you may have noticed,' Mrs Wilson started.

Of course he noticed, John thought, don't be ridiculous.

'And I wanted to apologise for my sudden breakdown.'

John shot Sherlock a warning look to prevent him from saying 'apologies accepted.' Sherlock sighed and muttered, 'Oh, it's fine,' exaggerating the hand movements that came with the insincere words. John couldn't help but chuckle a bit.

'I couldn't think straight, but I believe that I am feeling better now, and I wish to help you as much as I can.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, then nodded. 'Very well,' he said, 'How well did you secure your vault?'

Mrs Wilson brought a trembling hand to her face, and stroked her hair out of her face as she put her hand on her forehead. She was thinking very hard, a bit too hard for Sherlock's liking. It didn't come natural and seemed quite forced, as if she was acting the concept of 'thinking' out. 'I'm afraid I don't know how the system works. My husband…' But Sherlock broke her off. 'Yes, your husband. Any idea where he may be?'

'You mean you can't find him? Oh, he does that a lot.'

'Does what a lot?' John asked, before Sherlock could open his mouth. This surprised Sherlock a bit and he gaped at John. He figured that John had found his interrogation too rude and had taken over because he had wanted a proper conversation.

'He just takes off at times, without saying anything. Last night even! His business company had arranged a dinner for us, and during the main course, he got up and left the table. We assumed he had gone to the bathroom, you know, to,' she hesitated and turned slightly red and figured that there was no need to finish that sentence. 'But the thing was, he returned twenty-five minutes later!'

'Wonder what he's been doing in there,' Lestrade muttered, so that only John could hear him. John giggled and whispered in return, 'Cheating on her, probably.'

Lestrade laughed out loud at this, so loud that Mrs Wilson and Sherlock both shot him an annoyed look. He shrugged and quickly looked away.

'But like I said, he takes off a lot without mentioning where he's going to me.'

'Any idea why?'

Mrs Wilson shook her head. 'I used to think he was cheating on me, and I still believe that's what he did. That's why I asked for a divorce. But, anyway, I don't think he was well… not last night.'

'Why not last night?' Sherlock asked.

'Because he took his phone and wallet out of his coat before he left the table.'

Sherlock nodded and then quickly thanked Mrs Wilson for her patience, before pulling John along over the green lawn. John shouted a quick goodbye to Lestrade, before giving in to Sherlock's tugging. 'Where are we headed?' John asked. Sherlock was in a hurry and started running, still holding John's hand. They ran through the busy streets of London and John was sure they knocked a few people over. They stopped running after they had turned another corner. 'Why aren't there any cabs when you need them?' Sherlock panted, scanning the block for black taxis. John, trying to catch his breath, shrugged. 'Where… are we… going…?'

'Lab,' Sherlock sighed, and then, finally, he spotted a cab.

* * *

**We hope you enjoyed it :)  
If anything about the Indian ink is incorrect, we blame Wikipedia.  
Please tell us what you think by reviewing - we'd really love to hear people's opinions about our writing style, English, Sherlock/John relationship and our cases. Thank you all! **


	8. Chapters 15 and 16

**15. Sentiment**

It wasn't a very long ride and the traffic wasn't bad either, which meant that the duo arrived at the lab only moments later. They were greeted by a cheerful Molly, a broad smile on her face. A frown appeared on Sherlock's face when he saw her. 'Why aren't you at the morgue?' he asked.

'I, oh, I need to do some tests and I thought, well…' she stammered, as always not sure what to say. Sherlock, who wasn't listening to her, nodded and gestured John to follow him.

'I was just leaving,' Molly said.

'I can see that. You are standing by the door, surely you are not a porter.'

'No,' Molly confirmed in a whisper, a hurt look on her face. John realised that she had been standing by the door to open it for him and Sherlock, which made her some sort of porter. 'Well, I-I better be off.'

'Yes. Goodbye.' Sherlock was too busy setting up his microscope that he didn't even look at her as she left the room.

'You are always so rude to her, Sherlock.'

'Not always,' the detective replied, remembering what had happened only months ago. He had been nice to her on the day he had faked his own death.

John sighed and then figured that Sherlock would always remain Sherlock. And that was a thought that did not bother the doctor at all. 'Tea?' he asked.

Sherlock, staring into the microscope, nodded and John was almost sure he heard him say 'thank you.'

The doctor left the lab, the door closing behind him, but Sherlock hardly noticed. All his attention was fixed on the microscope. It didn't take him long to find that he had been right about the ink on the note in Mr Wilson's address book. It was Sebastian Moran.

_Oh, that's clever, that's very clever, awfully clever…_

He was back! Sherlock jumped up from the stool he'd been sitting on. He gasped for air, but couldn't breathe in. He closed his eyes, and intended not to open them until the voice inside his head would finally shut up. He _saw_ him. Images of Moriarty, smiling at him, laughing at him, mocking him.

_Nah. You're ordinary._

He wasn't as strong as the consulting criminal. Not even his equal. Moriarty played his game too well.

_You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't._

Sherlock tried to convince the voice that he didn't fear him, that he didn't mind to hear the same words over and over again.

_Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind._

'Yes, it has!' But then why did Moriarty still terrify him? Why couldn't he just block the man out? _Sherlock? _He grunted as he saw Moriarty's face flash before him. Watery eyes wide open, close to what seemed like tears._ Sherlock!_ He touched Moriarty's ice cold skin as he shook his hand. _JESUS, SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK! _

A hand grabbed him firmly by the shoulder. Sherlock turned around, a frightened look on his face. He pushed the man away from him. He was just in his mind, he wasn't there. He wasn't there!

'Sherlock, it's me. He's not here. It's me.'

Sherlock stared into John's face. The doctor's eyes were full of sorrow and concern for his friend. Sherlock realised what had happened and gasped. 'John! I'm s-s-sorry, so sorry.'

'It's okay.' John bit his lip as he saw tears fill the corners of Sherlock's eyes. He had no idea what he was going through, he couldn't even imagine voices in his own head, but he understood that Sherlock needed him there.

John held Sherlock's face in his hands and pulled him closer. Sherlock face felt cold, and he looked incredibly pale, but John could see something in his eyes light up as the doctor touched his skin.

John's touch seemed to block the images of Moriarty out – for a while. John was just there to comfort him while it passed. There was nothing to be done, it had to pass by itself, like a sickness.

John continued to stare in Sherlock's wet eyes, still trying to figure out what colour they were. They seemed to be green, but John was sure they had been blue once or twice.

Sherlock's breathing came in heavy spasms, as if his lungs couldn't take in any oxygen. Being near John seemed to help a bit, the images and the voice in his head blurred. _He's sweet! I can see why you have him around… But then again, people do get so sentimental about their pets.  
_  
Sherlock took a small breath, the corners of his mouth twitching a bit. Even Moriarty had known.

Moriarty…

Moriarty knew he was winning the game. He knew he was getting inside his head.  
_  
I have loved this… This little game of ours…_

Sherlock moaned as another image of Moriarty shot through his mind. Why couldn't he just go away? Why was he so persistent on messing with his head? Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He had enough of Moriarty's mind games.  
_  
Flirting's over, Sherlock, daddy's had enough, now…!_

'John – ' he gasped, desperate for something else to focus on. 'John, it's happening again, he's back, he's – '

'Not here,' John said, still holding Sherlock's face, still pulling him closer. Their foreheads almost touched, but John continued to stare into the other man's eyes. Sherlock looked back, although John wasn't sure he was looking into his eyes or staring, seeing other things, remembering.

John did the only thing he could think of. He closed his eyes, and softly pressed his lips to Sherlock's, feeling the tension in every muscle.

It took a while for Sherlock to respond, but when he felt John's mouth on his, every image of the consulting criminal vanished from his mind, piece by piece. The smiling, winning James Moriarty was replaced by one with a menacing scowl, obviously losing. Sherlock knew, at that instant, that if John was with him, he would be able to beat Moriarty.  
_  
Beause I've beaten you…  
_  
The cold, but charming voice was still there, but it seemed to come from far away, as if the frequency was off, like a radio.

'I love you, John,' Sherlock muttered, putting his arms around John, pulling him close against his still shaking body. 'I love you…'

'It's all right,' John whispered, more scared than he wanted to admit. 'I love you, too.'

'Why does this keep happening?' Sherlock murmured, his voice a bit thick.

John just shook his head. 'I don't know, Sherlock. I don't know…'

It always took a while before Sherlock's body calmed down, but for his mind to calm down, John had to stay near him for the rest of the day. Sherlock stayed restless, even though Moriarty had left again. John knew exactly what he was dealing with. He had seen it in Afghanistan too much already.

Most soldiers had things like Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or during the war, felt haunted by the violence and death. They had had attacks like Sherlock had, only Sherlock's seemed much more real – perhaps because they had a stronger bond than John had ever had with someone.

Moriarty was war for Sherlock, violence, death, and much more. Moriarty was everything Sherlock feared; losing. An equally brilliant mind.

John was glad he had been in Afghanistan. It gave him experience, he knew how to deal with things like this.

'Okay, Sherlock. Listen to me, and look me in the eye. I don't know what is happening inside your head, but whatever it is, it's not real. Realising that is the first step.'

Sherlock frowned, his wet eyes finally able to focus. He already knew this approach, but hearing it from John's mouth was different. It was calming. He nodded. 'I know it's not real. But when it's happening, I can't think about anything else. It feels like he's blocked my ability of reasoning, of thinking logically.'

'What helps? You seem to be able to stop it, every time I've seen it happening.'

'I can't do it by myself.'

'Then what helps? Tell me, Sherlock.' John had a feeling he already knew, but it was important for Sherlock to say it himself.

'You.'

'I'm here, am I not? Did I help?' John was only asking these questions for Sherlock to answer, even though it was obvious. It was part of the treatment.

'Yes.' Sherlock knew exactly what John was doing, but it helped. He felt an overwhelming sense of love for the shorter man who was clearly concerned about him.

'What did I do to help?'

Sherlock frowned again, not sure how to put it into words. 'You were here. You were also in my mind. You were… stronger than Moriarty. You blocked him out.'

'And how did I do that?' John was still determined to help Sherlock, but he couldn't keep his face from turning pink.

'I don't know… You were just here. It felt like I was losing the game, I was alone. But then you came. I instantly knew that with you, I _couldn't _lose the game. I settled down – Moriarty is still here, I know that, and he won't go away until I have beaten him, but I know that with you, it is possible.'

John smiled, loving Sherlock for needing him. He felt significant, like his existence had a purpose.

Sherlock felt a wave of gratitude and love for the doctor, and bent forward to kiss him. He hadn't said that John's earlier kiss had helped, too.

He didn't know whether he should have, or whether it was necessary, but he knew that John knew.

John couldn't explain what he felt when Sherlock was in such agony. He felt sorry for the man he loved, but more than that. He would do anything in order to stop it, he would take the pain himself. He would personally hunt down James Moriarty, even if it meant he could be killed himself. He also felt helpless, which was the emotion he hated most. He was a doctor, he was supposed to care for people. It reminded him of every time a person had died before he had been able to save him.

Sherlock was leaning forward heavily, desperately trying to kiss John with all his might and telling him he was grateful at the same time. He wasn't shaking anymore, in fact, every memory he had of Moriarty wasn't on his mind anymore. He felt John's strong hands grasp the back of his shirt, as if his life depended on it.

John hung on to Sherlock so desperately partly because he loved him so much, and kissed him back enthusiastically, and partly because Sherlock leaned forwards a bit too much and John had trouble staying where he stood, but he didn't want to interrupt their kiss. He did feel that Sherlock surprisingly strong arms were around his back and held him there firmly, so he wouldn't fall to the floor.

John didn't care whatever would happen to him, as long as Sherlock would go with him. He didn't care if he fell down on his back, but he would take the taller man with him, no matter what.

John moved his hands upwards, rubbing Sherlock's back in the process. Sherlock got goose bumps all over his back, arms, and shoulders when he felt John's hands curl around his neck.

He chuckled, opening his eyes for a split second, and he would never forget the happy look he saw on the doctor's face. Still smiling, he pressed  
his lips to John's again, not even thinking about what had happened only moments ago. It felt so good, being with John, kissing him, touching him and whispering his name.

Every time John heard his name, a soft, low whisper coming from the detective's perfect mouth, something inside him stirred. His stomach seemed to make a leap, and his whole body got new energy.

They both heard footsteps, but they were too caught up in each other and their energetic kiss to pay any attention to it.

The footsteps stopped suddenly, and they heard a gasp. Reluctantly, they moved their heads and turned to face a shocked Molly, her eyes wide open.

'Sorry, I – I didn't mean to – to interrupt you, or anything, I…'

They both swore under their breaths. John heard something similar to "goddamned", coming from Sherlock's mouth, while he himself stayed with his familiar "Jesus". Sherlock looked at Molly, an annoyed expression on his face. He hated the fact that they kept being interrupted – twice by Mrs Hudson, once by Lestrade, and Mycroft, even. Molly was the one who would most likely make a fuss about it, as well.

'I'm sorry, I'll just – go,' she stammered, looking around nervously.

'I think that's for the best,' Sherlock said, turning his attention to John again, who, just this once, didn't care about Sherlock's rudeness to her.

Molly stayed for a bit longer, staring at the duo continuing their kiss, then decided to go and make herself some coffee. She wasn't sure what her opinion was about their relationship. For a long time, she had fancied Sherlock, but when she saw them together, she knew that they were perfect for each other.

Sherlock continued as if nothing had happened, shifting John into a more comfortable position. The ex-army doctor now stood against the cupboards, leaning against the counter, with Sherlock pressed as close to him as was possible. Sherlock had almost forced him to stand like that, but he didn't mind – he liked how the detective used his strength for other purposes than catching criminals.

Sherlock pulled away for a second, drawing in some breath, and when he put his mouth to John's again, the doctor's head thudded against the cupboard. Both men giggled, but carried on kissing.

'Your head's a bit low,' Sherlock mumbled, trying to sound irritated. He put his hands around John's waist, and pulled him up a bit, forcing him to sit on the counter. John couldn't help but laugh at this, and soon Sherlock joined in, his low voice rumbling pleasantly.

'And – what about the ink? Is it the same?' John asked when their laughter finally died down.

'Yes, it is the same,' Sherlock replied, his hands still on John's waist. 'That's good news for us, and bad news for Moran.'

'How is that bad news? He thinks we can't bust him anyway.'

'I think that he doesn't know that his ink is so special. If he had any idea his ink could be traced, he wouldn't give Mr Wilson a note with his initials and a phone number.'

'What about the phone number? Can't we use it?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'No. Remember, he came to pick it up when we were in the warehouse. The password was "fairytale", something Moriarty did, obviously. He only used that phone once, to talk to Mr Wilson. Even Moran wouldn't be so stupid to give his phone number to any random person.'

'But why did Mr Wilson call him in the first place? Why didn't he tell his wife anything about him? They are hiding things from each other. We've got to find Mr Wilson.'

Sherlock gave John a final kiss and walked away, helping John off the counter first and put his jacket back on – looking through the microscope always seemed to work better without it.

'How are we going to do that? The man could be anywhere.' John hurried to catch up with his friend, who was already staring ahead, thinking, going through everything that had happened in the Wilson mansion.

'The divorce,' he muttered. 'Have you heard what Mrs Wilson said? She was talking about a divorce. She didn't trust her husband – and she was right in that. He is cheating on her, in fact; he is cheating on her right now. I found the address in his address book. Let's go pay Mr Wilson and his girlfriend a visit, shall we?'

'Are you sure that's the wisest thing to do?' John asked, wondering whether Sherlock knew it was rude to walk in on people like that, or that he just didn't care.

'How else are we going to find him, if not now? You said it yourself, the man could be anywhere. Besides, we need to ask him about the divorce. Have you noticed he hasn't said a word to us about it? There must have been a reason.'

'Why? Maybe he was just heart broken, maybe he just didn't want to talk about it.'

'Can't be, he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. If he didn't want a divorce, he'd keep it on. Sentiment,' Sherlock snorted. 'He has a mistress, on top of that.'

'If they both wanted a divorce, then why didn't he tell us anything about it? He can't have forgotten. The whole house must remind him of it.'

'That's what we're going to find out.'

The house of Mr Wilson's girlfriend was small, and the cabby warned them before they got out of the cab that they be careful, because "there's all sorts of funny lot around here".

Sherlock smiled insincerely and complained to John that the man should work on his English after the taxi had driven off again.

Sherlock strode through the small garden and rung the doorbell, putting his other hand on John's back, rubbing it lightly.

They stood in there for a minute or two before a young woman opened the door. She seemed a bit nervous, as if she were expecting her lover's wife.

'Ah, miss – what was it again…' Sherlock opened Mr Wilson address book, turning the pages sarcastically, 'Stone, am I correct?'

The woman was gobsmacked, apparently. She just stood there, her mouth hanging open.

'May we come in?' Sherlock asked, ignoring her answer and striding right through the doorway. 'Mr Wilson, we know you're here. We just want to talk to you.'

They found a shocked Mr Wilson in the tiny living room, holding a cup of tea and wearing not his tailored suit, but a sweater and jeans.

'How – how did you –?' he stammered, looking from Sherlock to John and back. Sherlock held up the address book he had found in a drawer in

Mr Wilson's study. Mr Wilson sighed when he saw it and looked down. 'What do you want to know?'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He would have reacted differently if he just thought we knew he cheated on his wife, he thought. He must think we know about Sebastian Moran, too.

'First things first,' Sherlock began. 'Your wife – she said she asked for a divorce. You didn't mention anything about a divorce.'

Mr Wilson waited for more, but it looked like Sherlock was waiting for an answer.

'We are getting a divorce. She accused me of cheating, which is… ahm…' he looked towards the young woman, who was looking at the scene still with that surprised look on her face. 'Amanda, can I talk to these gentlemen in private, please? I know it's your house, dear, but – '

'No, it's fine. Go ahead. I'll just… go upstairs.'

When the door closed, Mr Wilson started talking, a guilty look on his face. 'Like I said – my wife doesn't want me anymore, and honestly, I don't think I want to continue with her, as well. The spark is gone. Then I met Amanda and I felt like my life wasn't entirely useless.'

John knew Sherlock was incredibly bored, but let Mr Wilson speak to get all the information out of him. He looked sideways and grinned, for Sherlock had a certain look on his face, a tension in his lips that told John he was right.

'But I was scared. I knew my wife would get a better lawyer and therefore the house. I was terrified to lose my job, and – well… I don't know if you've noticed, but Amanda isn't the richest person in the world. I've grown accustomed to a big house and a wealthy life and I have to admit that I'm afraid to lose it.'

'And that is why you called Sebastian Moran,' Sherlock said, a satisfied grin on his face. 'Someone must have made it easy for you to get in touch with him, and plan a robbery for you. When your business company organised a dinner, you thought it would be a nice cover to give Moran a call and write out a cheque,' Sherlock held up a little note, which John had never seen before. 'Amazing what people keep in their drawers, isn't it? You were the robber, Mr Wilson. You contacted Sebastian Moran, who would arrange a robbery for you, because you were too scared to live in poverty. In order to confuse the police, you left a window open for the robber to get in. When you came back, you opened the door before your wife could see to confuse the police. I'm afraid we will have to call the police, Mr Wilson. Tell us where the stolen goods are and you might have a chance to live a prison-free life.'

Mr Wilson held his head in hands, looking defeated. 'It was my only chance. My only chance at a wealthy life with Amanda…'

'John, call Lestrade. He will want to know that we've found the thief. Mr Wilson, I ask you again – where are the contents of the vault?'

Mr Wilson sighed again, but told Sherlock they were in a safe, in a bank. He gave the name of the bank and the code to the safe.

'Well, I think our job here is done,' Sherlock announced, leaving a beaten Mr Wilson on the sofa. 'Let's go, John.'

'Where to?' John asked.

'Home,' Sherlock answered. 'The case is solved, there's no need for us to be here anymore.'

'Shouldn't we wait until Lestrade shows up?'

'Fine,' Sherlock sighed. 'I should give him the location of the stolen goods anyway.'

It took no more than five minutes for the police to arrive. They arrested Mr Wilson, and took him away to the station for further questioning.  
Sherlock took Lestrade aside and told him where to find the contents of the vault and to check with Mrs Wilson if everything was still there.

'Give me a call if there's anything wrong,' Sherlock called before going out the door. John followed close behind, a smile on his face.

'Only one more to go,' he said, looking up at the tall, impressive man with his long coat, collar turned up.

'Yes,' he replied, not too enthusiastic. 'But we can't expect it'll be over after that. We need to keep our eyes open.'

John nodded, not knowing what to say. It was as if they were caught in Jim Moriarty's web and there was no way out.

* * *

They took a cab home, and they both realised they were tired. They had solved the case in one day, even though it had seemed like a week.

'I'm surprised it didn't take us too long,' John said. 'We only found out about this case about… fifteen hours ago. Wait – you knew he had signed a cheque for Sebastian Moran. Why didn't you tell me anything?'

'I must've forgotten about it,' Sherlock answered.

Any other time, John would have been annoyed by Sherlock's lack of cooperation, but now, he was mostly concerned for him. Playing along in Moriarty's game was really taking its toll.

'How long?' John asked.

'Hmmm?'

'How long have you known? That Mr Wilson robbed his own vault for himself. I know you knew.'

Sherlock sighed. 'Since we were in the lab. You said that his whole house must remind him of the divorce. I realised what must have happened when I put the pieces together. The cheque, the phone number, the divorce. I needed to know it for sure, so I wanted to talk to Mr Wilson – and confront him if necessary.'

'Aren't you surprised, then? That Moriarty gave you such an "easy" case?'

'No. Moriarty doesn't care about difficulty. He is only interested in watching us figure it out.'  
'That is slightly alarming.'

Sherlock chuckled. 'You've met him. He is slightly alarming.'

It was dark already when they got out of the cab and walked towards their home. John got the key out of his pocket and unlocked the door, letting Sherlock go in first. He noticed several people staring at them again, a smirk on their faces. He didn't care anymore; he smiled back with a delighted grin and closed the door behind him. Sherlock had already taken his coat off and was halfway up the stairs. John caught up with him in a matter of seconds, taking his own coat off in the process.

'I wonder when we'll be getting the next case,' John said. 'I won't sleep well tonight knowing he might break in again.'

'He already has,' Sherlock said, frozen in the doorway, coat dropped to the floor. He was pointing at his desk, to which a note was pinned with an old-looking dagger.

_The best one so far, if you ask me. Good luck._  
_X_

**16. Smiley Murders**

John turned to look at Sherlock immediately, grabbing him by the shoulders. He was already shaking, for the third time that day staring into space as voices and images threatened to take over his mind.

'Sherlock, remember this afternoon. Remember what I said. This is not real. You're only thinking about it!'

Sherlock knew what John was saying – vaguely. But his mind had already entered the paranoid state it had become familiar with over the past few hours.  
_  
Oh, don't be obvious, I'm going to kill you anyway.  
In the end, it was easy.  
I'm disappointed in you, disappointed!  
If you don't jump, all your friends will die…  
Nothing's going to prevent them from pulling the trigger.  
_No, no, he wasn't there, it was just an idea, the idea of Moriarty!  
_  
But you can't kill an idea, can you?  
_  
Sherlock grunted. So his own mind was turning against him, as well. He could never trust anyone – not even himself.

No, that wasn't entirely true. He had John. John was there.

John was there!

Suddenly, he was aware of John's warm hands grabbing his shoulders with such force it almost hurt. He remembered what had happened earlier. John had helped him calm down. John had blocked Moriarty out.  
_  
No, I know you for real.  
Friends protect people.  
I don't want the world believing you're a fraud!  
Nobody could be that clever…  
You could.  
_  
'John,' Sherlock said after a deep breath. 'Thank you. You helped me once again.'

'Are you feeling okay?' John asked.

Sherlock nodded. 'I'm fine.'

'Sherlock, you must remember that if it ever happens again, you have to call for me, send me a text, anything. I'll be there.'

Sherlock nodded again and walked over to his desk, supported by John because his steps were a bit unsteady.

'Rubies,' Sherlock muttered when he took a closer look at the dagger. It was about ten inches long, with a silver hilt, and a few big chunks of ruby embedded in it. Sherlock stepped back and shivered in horror when he saw that the blade was bloody.

'John, I'm afraid it's not a robbery we have to deal with this time. It's a murder.'

'A murder? "Best one so far"… I'll call Lestrade. I'll tell him there is something missing from the stolen goods and that it's been used as a murder weapon. Luckily, we're not suspects this time.'

'No, we have an alibi. But they will want to know how it turned up in our flat.'

'Let's just tell Lestrade the truth. He has dealt with Moriarty before, even though he doesn't know him personally. He is an inspector, after all.'

Sherlock shrugged, clearly not caring anymore. 'Tell him whatever you like. Ask him about a recent murder, as well. Linked to a prison.'

John nodded. He got his phone out of his pocket, while Sherlock sat down on a chair, trying to find anything about a prison-murder on the internet on his mobile phone.

He found nothing, so he figured it must be quite recent.

A few minutes later, John hung up. He told Sherlock Lestrade was still busy with interrogating Mr Wilson and finding the stolen things and there had been no report yet of a murder.

'He will contact us as soon as they find anything that's linked to a prison in any way,' John finished. 'I suppose we'll just have to wait until tomorrow morning.'

* * *

When John woke up the next day, he knew that Sherlock was too agitated to find out about the new case and wouldn't be in bed beside him.

He was quite right in that – Sherlock was already up and running, pacing through the living room, studying the dagger and the note, waiting for a call. There hadn't been anything on the news, yet, either.

When John came in, Sherlock's heart made a little jump, as it did every time he saw him. He smiled a quick "good morning" and went back to pacing.

'Found anything on the note? With a UV-light or something?' John asked.  
Sherlock shook his head. 'Only that it is the same ink.'

'And on the dagger? Fingerprints, DNA?'

Another shake of the head. 'He is not that stupid.'

'No, I suppose not.'

Just at that moment, Sherlock's phone made a noise. Sherlock quickly took it out if his jacket and answered almost immediately.

'Have you found anything?' he asked. He listened intensely for a moment, then nodded and grinned. 'That's obvious. We'll be there right away.'

'And?' John asked.

'There has indeed been a murder,' Sherlock said when he bent down to pick up his coat that was still on the floor since he had dropped it the night before. 'I'll give the details in the cab, we have to hurry.'

Even though Moriarty was still involved, John noticed Sherlock was excited. This was his first murder in months, and he had missed it.

'Taxi!' he boomed as John shut the front door. He told the cabby where to go and held the door open for John to get in, first.

'That's very gallant of you, sir,' the cabby sniggered. 'You going on a date?'

'No,' Sherlock answered. 'We're going to a crime scene.'

* * *

'She was found in this alley, almost covered with rubbish bins and bags. That's why it took so long for someone to notice. She was practically invisible in the dark. You said you have the murder weapon?' Lestrade and his team were already at the crime scene, some policemen taking photographs, others securing the area, and some more talking to the homeless man who had found her.

Sherlock held up an evidence bag with the bloody dagger in it. 'Here it is. It was in our flat when we got home. It's the same person as that bomber a few months ago, remember? Who set a series of challenges for me?'

Lestrade gaped at the tall man. 'You mean that he has killed this woman?'

'No, not him, someone did it for him. But he is the brains behind it all. The previous two cases John and I have solved, they came from him, as well. He was the reason I jumped off Saint Bart's.'

Lestrade was clearly baffled by Sherlock's statements. 'But – how do you –?'

'I received a few notes from him.' Sherlock held up another bag, in which all three notes were stuffed, plus a few pictures from the white and pink message on the shop window. 'It's of national importance that I solve this case. Will you let me take a look?' Lestrade obviously didn't know what to say, so he just stepped aside to let the duo through.

'Lestrade, how was this murder linked to a prison?' Sherlock asked, putting on a pair of gloves.

'Our experts have confirmed that this is the work of a serial killer. The way of action is exactly the same. The trouble is, though, that the man we are looking for is currently in prison.'

Sherlock looked up. 'How do you catch a killer who's already been caught?' he murmured. 'Could it be the work of a copycat, maybe? An admirer of his work?'

'We've considered that,' Lestrade answered. 'It is a possibility.'

'Hmmm…' Sherlock sighed. 'I want to have a word with him, anyway. But let's look at the body, first.'

They walked over to where a young woman lay on the floor, obviously dead. John closed his eyes for a brief moment, wondering why anyone would every do such a thing.

Sherlock, however, didn't even think about why. He thought about how, and who.

The woman was wearing a warm coat, which told Sherlock she had been on the street the night before. The weather at the moment was quite cold, as it always was in London, but she was also wearing certain clothes and make up that suggested a night out.

'She had been running from her attacker,' Sherlock said. 'Look at her feet – they're bare. She had been wearing high heels but they were slowing her down. She had probably been carrying a hand bag, as well, containing her phone, wallet and those kinds of things. Is it here, or has it been taken?'

'No, it is here. The murderer didn't take anything from her – at least, not in that way.'

Sherlock bent down and took a closer look at the woman's stomach. She had been stabbed twice in the chest, and a smiley had been carved in the skin below. It looked exactly like the smiley Moriarty had left behind on his note.

'Lestrade,' he called. He held up the note and showed it to the detective inspector, who frowned in concern.

'Cause of death seems obvious to me,' John muttered.

'That is the signature of the serial killer. He has been under constant surveillance for the past fifteen years, so he can't have done it,' Lestrade said.

'So, either this is the work of a copycat, or… has he had visitors recently?'

'We haven't been informed. I'll let Donovan run some checks, and I'll let you know. Try and find me anything you can in the meantime.' Lestrade looked desperate.

Sherlock nodded and continued with his investigation.

'She took care of herself, valued her appearance,' he muttered softly as he looked at the dead body beside him. 'Her nails, her hair, her make up… even her toe nails,' he added, waving his hands towards the dead woman's feet. 'She wasn't killed here,' he said. 'There is too little blood on the floor, and a wound so close to the heart and organs bleeds more. By covering her with the rubbish bins, he hoped that it would be harder to find her, but Moriarty wouldn't have given us this case if the killer thought we'd never find the body. If he really meant to dispose of the body, he would have done so in a more convenient way.'

'Where did the murderer kill her, then?' Lestrade asked.

'That isn't of importance,' Sherlock answered. 'It was probably somewhere where she would be found easily and he would have a bigger chance of getting caught.'

'How are we sure it is a "he"?'

'Statistically more likely,' Sherlock muttered. 'Men stab and shoot more than women. Women often use poisons. This isn't the case, though, since we are probably dealing with a copycat, here. You said this is the signature.' Sherlock pointed to the bloody smiley on the woman's stomach. 'What about the victim? Does he hunt down young women like this one, or has he killed others?'

'Often young women like her – her name is Sarah Collins, by the way – but there were a few cases with older women, or men, even. They had all been out the night before. That is the connection.'

'So he hunts down people who had been going out. He meets them in a bar, a café or a nightclub, and kills them afterwards. He must be charming, able to be another person than the psychopath he actually is. He pretends to be interested by them, scares them off with a weapon and chases them. Probably just for the thrill. He knows they won't be able to outrun him, so he must be in a fit shape…'

John listened to Sherlock's deductions and wondered why he was never able to come up with things like that himself – it all seemed logical, but he would never have thought of it.

'There is something wrong with this case,' Sherlock whispered. 'It's too ordinary, there must be something…' Sherlock's voice trailed off as his vision blurred and changed; he could see a pavement below…  
_  
You're ordinary, you're on the side of the angels…  
_  
'John,' Sherlock said, reaching for his friend. He had trouble getting up and he leaned to the dirty, with graffiti polluted wall, desperately trying to focus on his surroundings.

John knew exactly what was happening and rushed to his friend's aid. 'It's okay,' he said, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock concentrated on the man beside him and closed his eyes. Taking a few breaths, he opened them again and looked down at the body once more. 'I've had enough of this…' he whispered, so that only John could hear. 'It's tiring me. I'm never tired.'

'Maybe you should sleep more and have breakfast,' John suggested, his years of medical training suddenly visible. 'I've told you many times before, Sherlock, it's not healthy.'

Sherlock nodded absently. 'You're always there for me. I can't say how grateful I am, John – '

The two men embraced, leaving the police officers and Lestrade speechless. They hadn't noticed what had passed between them only moments ago, but they did realise they had missed something.

'He's not feeling too well,' John said, not feeling the need to tell the whole truth. 'Hasn't eaten anything since last night.'

Lestrade shrugged. 'Anything else?' he asked, uncomfortably remembering the day before when he had walked in on them.

'I know there is something wrong with this case – it looks too… plain. There is more, a code that we must crack, a puzzle to solve. Perhaps it's the fact that the signature belongs to a murderer who's currently in prison…' Sherlock was looking at the body, frowning in concentration. 'Give me her handbag. I need to go through her belongings.'

Lestrade beckoned a young police officer John recognised as the cop he'd been shouting at outside the abandoned hotel, and told him to fetch Sarah Collins' bag for Sherlock. The young man dashed off and returned moments later, handing the black leather bag to the consulting detective.

'Small,' Sherlock muttered. 'Convenient. No more than wallet, phone and keys.' He opened the bag and found exactly what he had thought, nothing more. He fished out the phone and went through Sarah's appointments. 'Dentist… Date… nothing out of the ordinary. I don't think we're going to find more on this body. He's a serial killer – he will strike again. Like I said before, you have to wait for them to make a mistake. He will change his murder weapon as well, since we found this one in our flat. Get a sample of the blood sent to the lab – of the dagger and the body. We need to know for sure whether this is our case.'

* * *

'Don't worry, Sherlock. The Indian Elephant seemed pretty hopeless at first, too, remember? We'll figure this out.'  
John sat next to Sherlock, who was staring through the microscope once again. The detective's hands slammed on the table when the blood samples seemed to be the same.

'It seems like Moriarty somehow blocked my ability to read crime scenes. There wasn't much that was of help. How are we going to catch this murderer, if victimology doesn't tell us anything?'

John shook his head. 'I don't know.'

'And what is it that makes this case so special? I have difficulty believing he would give us such an ordinary case. It's not like we're a detective show on telly, or something.' Sherlock was racking his brain, but he already knew the crime scene by heart. 'There's no other way. We will have to speak with the serial killer whose signature this is.'

'So we're just going to walk in that prison and talk with an extremely dangerous murderer?'

'Are you concerned? Sherlock asked, eyebrows raised. He couldn't help but smile at the doctor's worried frown.

'Yes, I am. But not for that reason, Sherlock, and you bloody well know it.' John knew Sherlock was amused by his concern, but he was serious. Moriarty had invaded Sherlock's mind too many times already. He had been lucky John had been there most of the time, but what if it happened when he was not around? He wouldn't be in his right mind. He would be a danger to himself.  
Sherlock sighed. There was no pretending with John Watson.

'I don't know how to stop it. I can't keep him out – but you can. As long as you're with me, nothing will happen.'

'But what happens if I'm not around?' John asked, his voice barely a whisper.

'I won't let that happen,' Sherlock whispered back. They had been leaning in to each other unconsciously, and now Sherlock's whisper brushed against John's jaw. The doctor shivered, his muscles tensing as the goose bumps spread all over his body. Sherlock chuckled and pressed his mouth to John's neck. His lips touched John's skin as he moved his head upwards to kiss him on the mouth.

Only their lips touched, at first, but after a few seconds they couldn't resist the urge to put their arms around the other. John loved how sharp Sherlock's features were, not only in his face. Every bone and muscle in the detective's body was recognisable – Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock without them. It wouldn't feel the same.

Sherlock loved John's warmth, his presence. It felt so familiar, so good. When John was around, he felt complete. He hadn't known a part of him had been missing until he had kissed John that first time, only a week and a half ago. It felt much longer, like they had been together for over a year already.

John felt something wet on his cheek and he realised it was a tear, coming not from his eyes, but from Sherlock's. It moved him that Sherlock could actually feel something for him. He had always known him as relatively unemotional – until that day when he had talked to him on the phone, and he was standing on a rooftop. It had been the first time Sherlock had completely opened up to him, had been crying, saying in actual words he cared about him. That day had changed everything for them, but both, at that moment, would say it had been for the best.

'Sherlock.' John muttered his name in between two kisses. Sherlock frowned slightly and breathed in heavily. He felt John's arms clutched onto his back, and he never wanted them to let go. He needed John, always, and not just to keep Moriarty's voice out. They were connected, and even Sherlock knew that they belonged together.

'We need to work on the case,' John muttered.

'I know.'

But Sherlock ran his hands through the doctor's hair and whispered his name, before he brushed their lips together again. 'Sherlock…' John tried to say in a nagging voice, but his words were muffled against the detective's mouth. Sherlock chuckled at the sound. Both men wished the kiss could've gone on forever, but eventually John pulled back and looked at Sherlock, a frown on his face. 'We need to…'

'Go to Pentonville and interrogate this serial killer,' Sherlock finished the sentence, both a smile and a look of reluctance on his face.

* * *

**In the next chapter you will meet the serial killer; Joe Beck. Personally, we think of him as a pretty cool bloke. You can form your own opinions, but we have planned for him to be a returning character - also for the sequel to this "book", of which we will not say any more. (Don't worry though, this one is not yet done. Consider yourselves halfway through.)  
If you liked it - or not - please please review, for we love to hear other people's opinions and we'd like to know if there is anything we should improve on or if there's anything you like so much you want to read more of it. Thank you! **


	9. Chapters 17 and 18

**17. Riot Army**

Sherlock was tapping his knee nervously with his fingers. He seemed distracted, but John knew exactly where his thoughts were. He watched the man peer out the window of the cab, as if the streets of London were to tell him anything he didn't already know. It was late in the afternoon, and John tried to prevent his stomach rumbling. Sherlock turned at the sound and giggled. 'We'll eat afterwards, don't worry. We'll go out,' Sherlock said and as he saw John's unconvinced look he added, 'Promise.' This made the doctor smile. John didn't mind being a tad hungry, but he simply needed confirmation from Sherlock that he would get some food that evening. You never knew with the detective, for he skipped his dinner occasionally.

'What are you going to ask the killer?' John asked.

Sherlock shrugged, 'Whether he knows who did this to Sarah Collins,' he told John, 'I don't expect much from him, but we could always try.'

John nodded, 'What's his name?'

'Hmm?'

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's lack of interest in the serial killer. The doctor hated to admit it, but he was a bit anxious. 'The killer's name. What is it?'

'Oh, Joe… something,' Sherlock replied. 'Never been good with names.'

John sighed and stared at Sherlock, who was still looking out the window, in disbelief. Sometimes the detective could be both annoying and incredibly confusing at once. Sherlock always knew everything, except for simple matters; like names or the solar system and that kept surprising John.

Sherlock ignored him for the rest of the journey, too eager to figure anything out. However, he didn't get any further on the case, and he was clearly irritated by the time they got out of the cab.

Outside of Pentonville Prison there were two guards awaiting Sherlock and John. They inspected the duo carefully; checking for weapons or other illegal objects. Sherlock shot John an almost bored look, as to say how incredibly ignorant the guards were. They even suspected people who worked for the police.

The guards escorted them to a small cell. 'I'd like you to leave now,' Sherlock told the men in an almost polite voice. The guards, however, stated that they were coming with them. John and Sherlock both knew that the killer wouldn't tell them anything if there were four of them, so they didn't have much hope for answers as they followed the guards into the cell.

There was a bald man sitting on a bench. He looked up at the four people entering the room. His muscles tensed and his bright blue eyes went wide open as Sherlock stepped forward. 'Are you Joe?'

'Joseph Beck. Pleasure.' The serial killer stretched out his hand and Sherlock was about to shake it, but the guards stopped him from doing so. 'They don't trust me much, I'm afraid,' Joseph said, nodding towards them.

Sherlock frowned, confused by the last comment. He hadn't expected the man to be so chatty. He scanned the criminal's face. He was a few years older than Sherlock himself, which meant he must've been in his late twenties when he had committed his crimes. There were a few tiny wrinkles visible in his face, and the tattoos on his bald head would've drawn anyone's attention, but Sherlock noticed the man's eyes. They sparkled brightly, as if Beck was enjoying Sherlock's visit. 'Did you know we were coming?' Sherlock asked.

'I want them away, first. I won't tell you anything with them around,' he pointed at the guards.

'Why not?'

'I don't trust them.' A smile crossed the serial killer's face. It was a smile that made John, who had been standing near the doorway, shiver. He didn't like the sight of Sherlock standing so close to such a dangerous man at all. The detective, however, showed no fear at all. He turned towards the guards and asked them to leave one more time. They hesitated, but eventually agreed, promising the duo that they'd be waiting outside the cell if anything happened. John was very grateful for this, but Sherlock simply rolled his eyes. He knew Beck wasn't going to harm them. By the look on the man's face he could tell that he had precious information for them.

'So, did you know we were coming?' he repeated after the guards had left and were out of earshot.

Joseph Beck nodded. 'I've been waiting for you for fifteen years.'

John looked up in surprise, trying to see what Sherlock's response was to this. But the detective didn't seem impressed at all.

'Oh dear me, that's quite some time isn't it? Tell me, how do you know who I am?'

'I don't. I have no idea who _you_ are. All I know is that you are here for the crime that should've taken place ages ago. The crime to prove my innocence.'

Sherlock sniggered, 'Your innocence?'

Beck licked his lips and nodded, trying to convince Sherlock. 'I never killed multiple people. No… There were more of us, but I was the only one who got caught.'

'So, you're saying you're innocent because you've only killed one man?'

The killer nodded again. 'I tried telling the court, but they wouldn't believe me. Wouldn't even listen to what I had to say. They were absolutely disgusted with me…'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, 'I wonder why. All you did was carve smileys in your victims' stomachs.'

'My victim. His stomach. Singular.'

Sherlock nodded, 'My mistake.'

'What?' John's voice startled Sherlock and he looked to his left to find John staring at him in disbelief. 'You're not actually buying his stories, are you?'

It took a while before Sherlock answered him. 'I don't know,' he whispered. Then he focused on Joe Beck again. 'You say you didn't kill the other victims. Then who did?'

'I don't know any names. I remember meeting them, shaking their hands, but we never exchanged names. I suppose many are glad we didn't, for I would've mentioned them fifteen years ago.'

'Why didn't you exchange names?'

'If you were in a criminal organisation, would you tell others your name so they could report you after they got caught? I think not.'

Sherlock was now definitely intrigued and stepped closer to the bench Beck was sitting on. He hesitated a few seconds, before sitting down next to him. John stood very still, not sure what to do. It frightened him to see how much the killer fascinated Sherlock. There was a certain… madness in the detective he didn't quite understand. Every other man would've left Pentonville by now, too afraid to ask the criminal anything else, but not Sherlock Holmes. Not Sherlock Holmes, not the man who believed a killer on his word.

'A criminal organisation?'

Joseph Beck nodded. 'We got together once a week, planning murders.'

'Who did you kill?'

'People we didn't like. People who were an easy target. People who had money. People with a reason to die. People without one. Everyone who crossed our path.'

'Who did you kill?'

'I don't even remember his name. To me, it didn't even matter who the victim was. I just needed to kill.'

'But why in such a morbid way?'

'Oh, you are referring to the smiley! Did he do that? Did he really?'

'Who are you talking about?'

'Your murderer, obviously.'

Sherlock held his face in his hands, thinking hard. He was trying to come up with another question. One that would have Joseph Beck tell him everything at once. But he didn't need to, for the final question came from John.

'The organisation, what was it called?'

'We were called the Riot Army. We had strategies like an army, no flaws in our plans at all. Everything always worked out perfectly so that nobody would catch us. But then I came along, and I made a horrible mistake.'

'But we are unfortunately not interested in that mistake, Mr Beck,' John stated, 'We are interested in a woman, a dead woman, named Sarah Collins. You killed an innocent man, and you showed no mercy… Don't expect mercy from us, either. We're not here to get you out of jail, we are here for answers.'

'_Were_ here for answers, John. Past tense,' Sherlock said, 'Come on.'

* * *

They left a confused killer behind in his cell. But Joseph Beck wasn't the only one without answers. John hurried after Sherlock, no idea what the detective had realised this time. Before they got into the cab Sherlock gave John a penetrating look. He looked him in the eye, a deep frown on his face as he said, 'Don't talk to me. Don't even look at me… I need to think, and you are,' he hesitated, 'more than a normal distraction.'

John smiled, he understood what Sherlock meant. Anyone else would've considered Sherlock's words as rude, but not John. He knew that lives depended on Sherlock's brain, and he didn't even dare disturb it. However, the thought of Sherlock being 'too distracted' by him, made him feel warm and happy inside. John wasn't sure whether Sherlock had meant his last words in a nice way, but that didn't really matter. They had made John smile from ear to ear. He chuckled and promised the detective he would shut up until they arrived at 221B.

* * *

John had indeed been quiet the entire ride. He had only shot a few short looks at Sherlock, who hadn't seemed to move. The detective had been staring blankly ahead, his hands folded in front of his face. John had needed to poke him when they had arrived at Baker Street, otherwise the detective wouldn't have gotten out of the car.

John was now sitting on the sofa, watching Sherlock fiddle with the strings on his violin. John eventually got tired of doing nothing so he got up and walked towards the kitchen. His stomach still rumbling, he hoped to find some food in the fridge. Of course there wasn't, it was empty. 'Nothing,' he muttered, 'No bloody food.'

Sherlock finally looked up and replied, 'I told you; we'll go out!'

John raised an eyebrow; he didn't like Sherlock shouting at him. He knew the man never meant it personally, he was mostly just frustrated with himself, but it still didn't feel very nice. 'Will we? Because you don't seem very eager, to be honest!'

'That's because I'm not hungry.'

'Sherlock, you're never hungry, but you have got to eat so let's go _now!'_

Sherlock shook his head. 'I need to get my head around this case first!'

'What have you got so far? Maybe I can help?' John suggested.

Sherlock sighed but started talking anyway.

'I have never heard of anything called the Riot Army before, but I'm sure who's behind it.'

'Moriarty?'

'Obviously.'

'How's that obvious?'

'Riot Army is an anagram. If you shuffle the letters around you'll find that the same letters from the name Moriarty are used in Riot Army.'

'So that's the link then!'

'What's the link?' Sherlock asked, a frown on his face.

'If the Riot Army belongs to Moriarty, then that explains the smiley carved on the stomach of Sarah Collins.'

'Yes, obviously. But that is not what bothers me,' Sherlock sighed again.

'Then what does?'

'Why wait for fifteen years, to kill again? Why now?'

'Well, you know how Moriarty thinks. You told me a few days ago, and Moran – "there is no why in James Moriarty". You were right in that. I think he's just messing with you. This is the last case of the three, and why not use a criminal organisation from fifteen years ago to bother your archenemy?'

Sherlock thought about John's words, considering them carefully. They seemed to make sense – in a way. Moriarty never made complete sense.  
_  
It isn't the final problem…  
_  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. 'Let's go out,' he said, putting his violin away and straightening his jacket.

John, surprised by Sherlock's sudden anxiety to leave the flat, jumped up as well and reached for his coat. 'How come you've changed your mind all of a sudden?'

Sherlock frowned. Should he tell John everything?

He shook his head immediately – of course he should. 'Moriarty. I can't think too long about him or it will happen again.'  
John didn't need Sherlock to say what would happen again. He understood Sherlock like no one else did.

'Perhaps I'm a little hungry,' Sherlock said, but John knew it was only to make him feel better. He didn't care, though.

'Where are we going?' John asked. Despite his lack of eating, Sherlock always knew a nice place.

'A nice Italian restaurant. It's close to the bank of the Thames,' Sherlock smiled. He didn't want to tell John everything – he liked keeping the doctor in the dark sometimes.

John didn't ask for more. He knew the detective wouldn't tell him if he did. He would most likely turn his attention to something else, or just ignore the question completely.

When they left 221B Baker Street, there were still some people staring at them. John didn't even care anymore, and followed the tall man he could call his boyfriend.

A black cab just passed by and Sherlock raised his arm, signalling it to come over. He bent down to give the cabby the address, careful John wouldn't hear him. It had no particular reason, he just liked knowing something John didn't.

John got in the cab behind his tall friend, not able to resist the urge to crawl close to him. One of the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched, a pleased feeling welling up inside him. He was actually looking forward to their evening together, an evening with his John.

The cab drive was a long one, but neither one of them cared. Sherlock sat as far to the left as possible, leaning to the window, with John pressed tight next to him. Sherlock's arm was around the shorter man, his excuse being there would be no room to put it anywhere else. John's arms were around the detective's waist, and he noticed he was wearing his purple shirt again. John grinned, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder, his turned up collar blocking most of his view.

Sherlock was not able to keep a delighted grin off his face. He looked in the reflecting window after a while and was intrigued by his own face. He had never really seen himself smile like that before – and really meaning it, too.

They arrived at the restaurant, and the cabby grinned as they walked up to the entrance.

Sherlock ordered a table for two and followed the waitress to a little table in the back of the restaurant.

It was a nice place, darkly lit but still open. The little windows were half closed with curtains and candles stood on every table.

John looked at the handsome man beside him, a grin appearing on his face. Sherlock knew it would look like this – he knew every restaurant in London. John was sorry it was too dark to tell whether Sherlock was blushing. He liked Sherlock's pink cheeks, probably because it never happened.

Sherlock was not really blushing, but he was wondering what John would think of the restaurant of his choice. He had chosen it primarily because it was darker than most places and he knew a table where they would have some privacy.

They sat down at a table that was placed in a corner, so they would not be sitting completely opposite each other. They got a few curious glances but they were not paying attention to that. They were looking into each other's eyes, and John noticed that despite the darkness, Sherlock's eyes seemed to glisten and were brighter than ever.

The waitress soon came back and handed them the menu, promising to return soon with their drinks.

John looked through the menu and his stomach started rumbling again. Everything sounded really good, and the smells coming from the kitchen were delicious. Sherlock opened his menu with a certain reluctance. His stomach was what you could call empty, but he didn't feel the need to eat straight away. He had promised John, though, and that was why he would order something, only if it was only a starter.

The waitress came back with two glasses of wine and took their orders. John was surprised Sherlock actually took something and looked at him in disbelief. Sherlock looked back, raising his eyebrows. 'Anything wrong?'

'No, nothing's wrong. I'm just surprised you ordered food.'

Sherlock chuckled. 'Well, my doctor told me to eat more.'

'Did he?' John said, taking a sip of his wine. A broad grin appeared on his face as he felt something move beside him. Sherlock had shifted his position, a bit closer to John and was staring at him with his amazingly bright, penetrating eyes. He hardly blinked, and followed every move John made, from drinking from his wine to his fingers tapping on the table.

'This case,' John began. 'It's not about finding who actually killed Sarah Collins, is it? It's about finding Riot Army, finding Moriarty.'

'John, we're on a date,' Sherlock sniggered. 'And you're thinking about the case.'

'Well, it was on my mind and I thought, of all people, you'd want to talk about it.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'John, you taught me one thing. Never talk about the case on a date.'

John nodded. 'I did tell you that. But what else can we talk about?'

'Who says we have to talk?'

'I – well…' John frowned. 'I guess we don't, but – ' John stopped talking, for a certain look had appeared in Sherlock's eyes, a look that only appeared before –

Sherlock's mouth twitched a bit, forming a smile that was only meant for John, when he had done something stupid or, since they were together, something that reminded him of how much he loved him. 'Come here,' he whispered.

Sherlock's compelling voice made John forget about being in a public space and he crawled a bit closer to Sherlock, lifting his head so the consulting detective could brush his soft lips to his.

They never kissed too long in a public space like this, but it nevertheless showed how much they cared for each other. People couldn't help but stare at the couple, even the ones who were determined on not being rude – but it was just too heart-warming to ignore. Everyone who had read the papers and followed the news around "Hat-man and Robin" had felt for the doctor when the detective had killed himself, even though it was said he was a fake. The two did seem to care for each other very much and it must have been a hard blow for John.

With a touch on the cheek, Sherlock pulled away from John, who opened his eyes just a second later. 'Our food is here,' he said, nodding towards the waitress, holding two plates in her hands and a broad smile on her face.

'So it's true, then,' she said, putting the plates on the table. 'I didn't know whether to believe the papers, I mean, the photo looked very real, but hey, Photoshop is pretty advanced now, isn't it?'

John was a bit taken aback by the waitress' sudden interest in them. She continued to look at them with a delighted sparkle in her eyes, before she remembered she had other guests to look after.

Sherlock looked sideways again, raising his eyebrows in a knowing look. John shrugged and picked up his knife and fork.

The food turned out to be delicious, but John hadn't expected any less from Sherlock. They had a nice evening dinner together, talking about all the things they hadn't been able to talk about during their previous date, and more.

John noticed Sherlock was actually capable of eating, but he was taking his time. It was not as if the detective didn't like food, for he did seem to enjoy the taste, but he wasn't stuffing his mouth full, like John sometimes did when he was hungry.

When the waitress came back and asked for a desert, John politely declined. He looked at Sherlock from the corners of his eyes and noticed he had a relieved look on his face. John smiled because of it, and seeing John smile, Sherlock's heart jumped a little.

'Let's go, shall we?' Sherlock said, already grabbing his coat and putting his scarf on. John stood up as well, following his friend's example.

They left their table, its candle almost burnt out, and headed towards the main bar where they would pay for their food.

'I'll pay,' Sherlock said, already fishing out his card from somewhere inside his many pockets.

John let him, but wondered whether that would make Sherlock the man in this relationship. The thought went along with a happy giggle.

'What are you so happy about?' Sherlock asked, holding the door open for John to get through. He stepped outside after John and let the door fall back, turning his collar up and ran a few steps to catch up with his friend.

'I was just wondering who the man in this relationship is,' John sniggered. 'But I guess we both are.'

'Why would you even wonder about that?' Sherlock asked, looking at John with a confused expression on his face.

'Well – it's kind of… a joke,' John began, but he wasn't sure how he would be able to explain it to someone like Sherlock. Again, he noticed people staring at them, even pointing. 'I wish they'd stop paying attention to us like that,' John mumbled.

'Let them, I'd say,' Sherlock said, a cheerful undertone in his beautiful, low voice. 'I don't care what other people think.' He lifted his left arm and put it around John's back, pulling him a bit closer.

Sherlock's warm hand sent a tingle through John's body, and his right arm immediately shot up and curled around Sherlock's back, suddenly noticing how well his long coat suited him. 'I don't care either,' he whispered.

They walked like that for a while, their arms around each other. 'When are we getting a cab?' John asked suddenly, realising they were walking quite a while, but Sherlock had made no move to call for a cab; instead, he kept his arm around the shorter man, walking through the busy streets of night-time London.

'We're not,' Sherlock said cheerfully. 'I thought it'd be nice to walk around for an hour or two.'

John grinned, obviously amused. He liked the fact that Sherlock was different; most people would have gone to the theatre or something, but not Sherlock Holmes.

'So, we're just going to walk around London?' John asked, actually quite liking the idea of a London city walk.

'That's what I said,' Sherlock replied, tightening his grip on John's waist. 'Is that okay with you?' he asked, a worried look crossing his face.

'Yes, it's fine, it's… more than fine,' John answered, smiling broadly at a young couple who were staring at them, an actual newspaper in their hands. 'Never done anything like this before, at least, not on a date, but it's good, it's brilliant.'

Sherlock sighed, obviously relieved. He wanted to do something that night beside eating at a restaurant, but he didn't want it to be ordinary. He was Sherlock Holmes, he wasn't ordinary. Ordinary people were dull.

'Sherlock, I am so happy at this moment. I've been alone for all my life, but then I met you. You helped me. Finding out you weren't dead, I… I don't know,' John stammered. He was having a difficult time explaining how he felt.

Sherlock directed him to the right, to where a small bench stood, looking out on the Thames. 'John, you don't have to tell me this. I already know. It's all right,' he said, sitting down next to John, putting his arm around him and resting his head against the shorter man's.

'You have no idea how horrible, how lonely I felt when you were gone,' John whispered, clasping Sherlock's right hand in his. He closed his eyes to prevent Sherlock from seeing his wet eyes.

'John – ' Sherlock pressed his lips to John's forehead. 'Stop talking. I felt exactly the same. I'm here now.'

This time, John needed Sherlock, instead of the other way around. Even Sherlock knew the two of them were perfect for each other, that they belonged together. Sherlock was not quite sure how to calm John down. He remembered what John had done for him; just being there.

Sherlock jerked his hand out of John's hold, and put it on John's cheek. He turned John's head so he could look him in the eye. 'John, open your eyes,' he ordered. Slowly, John did as he was told, one tear running down his cheek.

It broke Sherlock's heart seeing John like this, and he understood in that split second how John must feel every time Moriarty got into his head. They needed each other for things like this, but Sherlock had no clue of what to do, so he just did what he thought he would want John to do for him.

John was reliving every memory of that awful day when he had seen Sherlock jump off the roof, blood all over the pavement and his face, no pulse. He remembered how the paramedics took him away and he wasn't allowed to see him. He remembered the funeral and the lonely months after that. He knew that the actual man was right beside him, but the memories and the feelings were too much for him.

He heard Sherlock's soothing voice and looked up into those brilliant pale green eyes which were staring at him so intensely. It was as if they saw right through him, into his soul, and knew what he was thinking.

'Sorry,' John mumbled. 'Sorry. I can't even explain…'

'You don't need to,' Sherlock said, his voice breaking. He loved John so much, and he hated himself for what he had done to him, but if he hadn't done it, John wouldn't even have been there.

John noticed that sparkle appear in Sherlock's eyes again, and he put his arms around the tall man, switching his gaze to Sherlock's lips. There was a particular tension in them, which only John was familiar with. It appeared when Sherlock was anxious, or nervous. It rarely happened, but it made John feel special. He saw things of Sherlock Holmes that no one else did.

Sherlock noticed that John's thoughts turned inwards, and the corners of his – according to John – perfectly shaped mouth curled up in a pleased smile. He had made John feel better.

There was no need to lean in for a kiss, because they were so close to each other already. Their thighs were pressed together, and their upper bodies seemed to fit as if they were puzzle pieces. Sherlock only needed to lower his head, but his heavy breathing in the other man's neck told John everything he needed to know.

Taking a deep breath, John closed his eyes and waited for the soft touch of Sherlock's careful lips on his. It was almost always Sherlock who kissed him, but he liked waiting expectantly for one of Sherlock's tentative kisses. He liked the actual kisses even more so.

As always, Sherlock wasn't quite sure of himself in this part of the human experience, but when he felt John responding to his kiss, he forgot all his doubts and pressed his lips to John's with more certainty, losing himself in the moment entirely.  
'John…' he muttered between two kisses, his warm breath blowing past the doctor's skin. He felt John's hands run through his hair and got the familiar tingling sensation in his neck, spreading to his arms.

John noticed suddenly how different the feel of Sherlock's lips was than any other kisses he'd had in his life. But they felt better, more perfect, as if these were the lips of the man who was perfect for him.

Sherlock had never had anyone to kiss before John, but he knew it wouldn't make any difference.

'Let's go home,' he whispered after a while. They were still on the bench, so close together they could have been mistaken for one person, staring at the night sky, filled with luminous stars, mirrored in the water of the Thames.

John nodded. They both got up and walked to the main road together, their arms around each other once more.

* * *

John was so tired he didn't even bother putting on his pyjamas, and Sherlock figured that if John didn't do it, he wouldn't have to, either. He did take his jacket off, and crawled in beside John as fast as he could.

'I love you,' John murmured as soon as they lay in their familiar position, his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder. 'Sorry about… this evening.'

'It's fine,' Sherlock muttered back. 'I love you, too.'

They both turned their heads at the same time, looking into each other's eyes again for a brief moment. Then, Sherlock pressed his lips to John's forehead and rested his cheek on his hair, closing his eyes and drifting off into a peaceful sleep.

**18. Nightmares**

Sherlock woke up early, feeling a warm breath somewhere in his neck. He looked down and found a sleeping John beside him, his head still on his shoulder. Sherlock smiled, remembering the pleasant evening before.

His mind immediately switched to the case again. A girl had been murdered by a secret criminal organisation called Riot Army – an anagram for Moriarty. It had been formed about fifteen years ago, when Joe Beck got arrested for a murder he committed in the name of that organisation. He wasn't the only one – all the other murders were committed by other members of Riot Army. There was one thing that connected them, and that was the smiley carved in the victim's bodies.

Moriarty's smiley…

How are we going to find them? Sherlock wondered. What is the clue to deciphering Moriarty's whereabouts? Was Moran involved?

We need to speak to Joe Beck again, Sherlock thought, a frown appearing on his face. He might tell us where Riot Army's headquarters were last time. Maybe they've left some clues.

He looked to his left again, to a stirring John. He just opened his eyes when Sherlock fixed his gaze on the doctor's head, which caused a little smile to play around Sherlock's lips.

'Good morning, John,' he said in a cheerful tone. 'How's your night been?'

'It was fine,' John answered, rubbing his eyes. 'What's got you all happy?'

'I think we need to speak to Joe again,' Sherlock answered, not oblivious to John's nervousness around the killer.  
John moaned. 'Why?'

'Because he might know where Riot Army's headquarters were fifteen years ago and I want to know if he'd known either Moriarty or Moran. We can't wait for a next murder, and besides, Joe told us that they killed random people. The victims won't be of importance to us, only their killers and the organisation they belonged to.'

'Okay,' John sighed, remembering he was still wearing his normal clothes. 'You like him, don't you?'

'I like him?' Sherlock asked, confused. He was busy changing his shirt, fiddling with the small buttons.

'Yes. You seemed to enjoy your little conversation,' John said, inconspicuously looking at the detective changing his clothes.

'Oh. I did,' Sherlock chuckled. John's glances were not at all inconspicuous to him.

'I wonder how many people were in Riot Army,' John mused. 'How many murders have there been? In total, I mean?'

'Fifty-six,' Sherlock answered immediately. John rolled his eyes. Numbers, no problem. Names, though…

'Can we assume every member has only killed one person?' John asked, still looking at the tall man.

'I don't even think every member killed,' Sherlock said. 'Moriarty doesn't like getting his hands dirty.'

The image of Moriarty beside the swimming pool flashed through his mind immediately, but Sherlock simply blocked it out with the image of John. He knew it wouldn't help much in a major attack, but small images like this one were easily blocked out.

John nodded, narrowing his eyes as an expression of anguish crossed the detective's face. He knew something bad had crossed his mind, but he seemed fine a moment later.

Sherlock grabbed his black jacket, just at the moment his phone, which was still in its pocket, rung. He took it out and answered it, mouthing "Lestrade" to John. A frown crossed his face as the man at the other side started talking.

'Yes. We will be right there. I'll tell you everything we know so far,' Sherlock said, hanging up and urging John to hurry. 'There's been another murder.'

'Already?' John asked. Moriarty would literally do anything to keep himself from being bored. Much like Sherlock, a mean little voice in the back of his head said.

Sherlock nodded. 'We have to hurry.'

'No breakfast, then,' John stated, glad they had had a proper dinner the night before.

'I'm afraid not,' Sherlock replied with a grin. He wasn't feeling hungry at all – in fact, his stomach was still full from their dinner.

'Where's my coat?' Sherlock asked, confused. He never lost anything.

John blushed, remembering the night before and how they had entered their flat. It had started on their way back – they hadn't taken a cab home that evening – and they couldn't keep themselves from the other anymore. John recalled he had had enough of  
Sherlock's coat, which was in his way a bit too much. He had "helped" Sherlock take it off and had thrown it away in a dark corner of the room.

'It's right there,' he said, pointing at a bundle of grey fabric stuffed away in the corner beside the sofa.

'How did it get there?' Sherlock wondered, bending down to pick it up. He had some vague recollections of taking his coat off the evening before – or rather, letting John take it off, but he had no idea what John had done with it.

John didn't answer, but shot Sherlock a meaningful look. Grinning mischievously, he turned away and dashed off the stairs. Sherlock watched him go, still in the process of putting his coat on. He caught up with the doctor in seconds, touching his shoulder softly. John looked sideways, still a grin on his face. The detective smiled broadly, running his hand through John's hair.

'I love you,' he said, a grin playing around his lips. He opened to door with his left hand, his right still on John's head.

A bright morning sun greeted them as they stepped outside 221B Baker Street. There were hardly any clouds in the blue sky, which promised a nice day. It was a bit cold, but that was the London weather and neither one of them cared. They huddled up close to keep themselves warm as they looked for a cab to pass by. Baker Street was, as ever, busy with locals, tourists, buses and cars and usually, it didn't take more than five minutes for a cab to turn around the corner.

This time, the crime scene was closer to their home, which meant that the cab ride didn't take too long. Sherlock explained everything Lestrade had said on the phone, letting John know what to expect.

'It was a man this time – he was found in the same environment. Partly covered with rubbish bins, a dark alley. That tells us that the killer is relatively inexperienced. Moran wouldn't have killed either one of them, he is too bold and confident to feel the need to cover his bodies. And Moriarty – Moriarty doesn't kill, at least, he doesn't do it himself.'

John was listening to Sherlock's enchanting voice, taking in every bit of information. Sherlock's low voice seemed to make it easier; it filled the space and it was impossible not to listen to.

'Joe said that Riot Army was formed about fifteen years ago. They killed people just to kill – I'm sure Moriarty had a reason for it, though, however insane it might be. All of them carved smileys in their victims' stomachs, like this one. But this killer, he is inexperienced. I think Moriarty formed his criminal organisation again, collecting new criminals. They might have been involved in criminal activities before, but this kind of approach is new to them.'

By the time Sherlock was done with his small deduction, the cab had reached their destination. Sherlock thanked the cab driver and paid him, opening the door with an excited sparkle in his eyes.

They walked down the street together, towards a little side street marked by yellow ribbons, a couple of police men standing by.  
Lestrade was waiting for them. He looked relieved when he saw the consulting detective and his loyal companion and almost ran up to them.

'Sherlock, tell me anything you've got. I don't want any more people to die just because someone out there is too bored to do anything else.'

'I will – but I need to look at the victim first.' Sherlock pushed past Lestrade, already putting some gloves on, stepping around the man on the ground with careful movements.

'When was he found?' he asked, crouching beside the body. The man was young, in his twenties, a reasonably fit shape.

'This morning, a few hours ago. The body was discovered by the people who live there,' Lestrade said, pointing to the building which was closest to them. 'They were taking the garbage out, but they found this man underneath their bins.'

'Stabbed in the chest,' Sherlock muttered. 'A smiley carved in his stomach. Covered in rubbish… Same procedure. Same killer. Different from last time.'

'How do you know it's different? The smileys are the same,' Lestrade said.

'There have been fifty-six murders, if you don't count this one or Sarah Collins. All those murders were committed within one year.  
We visited Joe Beck yesterday. He told us he had been in a criminal organisation called Riot Army fifteen years ago. He had only killed one person, though every killer in that organisation used a smiley to symbolise their unity. Those killers rarely killed twice, and if they did, they wouldn't have killed two days in a row. Someone else did this.'

'How can you tell it's the same one?' John asked.

'It is a bit unlikely that two different killers would both cover their bodies with rubbish bins, isn't it? They were stabbed in the chest twice, as well. The way of execution varied fifteen years ago, from asphyxiation, to stab wounds, to gun shots. The only thing that connected the murders were the smileys, and that is one connection you can't ignore.'

'But how are we going to catch this guy?' Lestrade asked desperately.

'Don't you see? It's not important, we have to catch Moriarty, he's behind it all. The victims aren't telling us anything that will lead us to their hiding place.'

'But Joe will,' John said. Sherlock nodded, turning his attention to the dead man again. Normal things became apparent just by one glance, such as his job, in what kind of environment he lived, pets, girlfriend – he could even tell the man suffered from asthma. It didn't tell him anything about the killer or Riot Army and it bothered him.

'John, let's go. I've seen enough here,' Sherlock announced, throwing his gloves in one of the bins that were moved aside. 'We have to look at this case with a clear head. We know Moriarty's behind it, but that shouldn't keep us from considering every possibility.'

John nodded, as always agreeing with the detective without any doubts. Whatever Sherlock said, it always made sense.

* * *

'What do you think Joe Beck will tell us?' John asked. 'Do you reckon he'll tell us the location of the headquarters from fifteen years ago?' He was on the sofa, reading the newspaper from that morning. It was the first time he read a newspaper since the day after they'd saved Lestrade and he was still bothered by the stories about their relationship which were still published.

'I don't know,' Sherlock muttered. 'He'll tell us everything he knows, I'm sure of it.'

'Why would he do that?'

'Because if this investigation works out and we find Moriarty and his plans for Riot Army, we will have proved he is innocent – or, at least, partly innocent. I don't know what it'll do to his time in prison, but they'll treat him differently.'

'Hmm…' John sighed. 'Are we going now, or do you want to prepare?'

'The guards won't let us into prison so soon after our last visit,' Sherlock said, his voice even lower than usual, indicating he was  
thinking. John got the impression he was talking to no one in particular, he was just staring straight ahead, at the wall with the smiley on it.

'What? Does that mean we have to wait for – what, an hour? A day? Sherlock?' John waved his hands in front of the detective's face, trying to get his attention.

'Oh, we can go today, just not yet. It's too early in the morning. I'm sure we can make an arrangement with Scotland Yard to let us in later on…' Sherlock hadn't taken his eyes off the smiley, but his concentration level was now below zero. John had distracted him from his thoughts. 'John, have I told you before that you are… a huge distraction?' he said, his eyes scanning the doctor's body. When they went upwards again, his gaze lingered on John's lips.

Slowly, he got out of his chair, and John noticed his muscles move underneath his button-down shirt – he was wearing his black one today. John was still amazed by the perfection of Sherlock's body, how well it worked together. He was tall, skinny and muscular at the same time, and his movement was everything but clumsy. It was graceful, smooth, elegant. It had something to it that made it seem regal, which was also one of the few similarities to his brother Mycroft.

Sherlock walked the few steps that were needed to close the distance between the two men, and put his hands on John's neck.  
'You're a good distraction, though,' he whispered in John's ear. John shivered as he felt Sherlock's familiar breath blow past it and his hands shot up to Sherlock's chest, playing with the buttons of his shirt. He knew then he wanted to be nowhere else at that moment, than with Sherlock. Wanting to feel Sherlock's perfect lips on his, he pulled the tall detective closer by his shirt, and used one of his hands to turn Sherlock's head in his direction.

Sherlock obliged, eagerly pressing his lips to John's, which were opened slightly for him to breathe. As he kissed him, his head filled itself with memories of the shorter man, his voice, his name. 'John…'

'Sherlock,' John muttered in response, putting his hand on the back of Sherlock's head and pushed it down a bit, making it easier for him to reach the lips that curled into a content smile when he said his name.

John, still holding Sherlock by his shirt with one hand, pulled the detective's body closer to his own. Their bodies touching everywhere and their lips still locked, Sherlock ran one hand through John's blond hair. The doctor sighed in delight. Every touch of Sherlock caused a warm feeling to spread through his entire body, which made him breathe even more heavily. Sherlock felt John's breath against his lips and he couldn't help but shiver slightly. John's hand slowly moved from his neck to the detective's shoulder, rubbing it softly. Sherlock responded to this by lowering his head even more, allowing himself to kiss John with more enthusiasm. They both lost themselves in the moment, and neither of them noticed Mrs Hudson walking in. She gasped and let out a soft 'oh my' before muttering a quiet 'I'll come back later, then…'

Sherlock shifted his weight, forcing John to take a few steps backwards. The doctor, who already knew where this was heading, gave in and stumbled backwards. The two men landed on the sofa only seconds later, Sherlock on top of John, chuckling deviously. John opened his eyes for a split second, just to see Sherlock's perfect smile again. Sherlock, who noticed John's peeking, grinned and leaned in again, kissing the doctor without any hesitation this time. John closed his eyes in response and lifted his head, so that he could answer the detective's kiss. During their kiss, John couldn't stop smiling. The moment was more than perfect. The way Sherlock's warm lips were brushing his, how his hands were touching him and simply his presence were enough for John to know that he loved Sherlock, so much. Sherlock's hand moved to John's face again, slowly stroking his cheek. Then, the detective shifted a bit to his right, pressing his body closer to John's. The doctor loved the weight of Sherlock on top of him, and blushed slightly at the thought. Sherlock pulled back for a few seconds to breathe in and studied John's face for a short while. The doctor, whose eyes were still shut, didn't see Sherlock's broad smile as he whispered; 'You are perfect, John…'

John chuckled, not believing that the taller man actually meant it. He didn't think he was perfect and, if anyone was, it was Sherlock himself. 'I mean it, you are perfect. In any way.'  
At this, John opened his eyes, and as his gaze met Sherlock's he realised that the other man had been serious. John wanted to say something, but couldn't think of anything that would even make sense. He was completely overwhelmed by Sherlock's words. 'What…?' He stammered eventually.

'You heard me.' Sherlock smiled again but then leaned forward to kiss John again. John got goose bumps all over his neck and arms as he felt Sherlock's lips move over to his jaw. John was hardly aware of the fact that he threw his head back a bit. Sherlock, still holding John's face with one hand, leaned in a bit more and pressed his lips against the other man's neck. He felt John's hands on his back tighten its grip through his shirt, his fingers gently pressing into his skin. Sherlock pushed himself up a bit and, hovering over John, looked at the shorter man. John had opened his blue eyes, and stared at Sherlock for a while before sitting up. Sherlock moved backwards in response, and waited for the other man's lips to touch his own. John moved his hands from Sherlock's back to the man's shoulders and pushed him on his back. Sherlock caught John by surprise, when he quickly pulled him down on top of him.

For a second time that week Sherlock's head thudded against the floor. He moaned quietly but his sound was muffled against John's mouth. The doctor, leaning on his left hand to make sure his weight didn't bother Sherlock, stroked the other man's chest with his right hand. Sherlock's fingers brushed John's cheek, and ran through his hair, when eventually they held the shorter man's neck and pulled him down a bit more. John lost his balance, and landed on top of Sherlock with his entire weight. Sherlock grunted but then laughed in his low rumble. 'Shut up,' John whispered as he pulled a hairbreadth away.

Sherlock sniggered. 'Make me,' he teased, still chuckling.

John had never expected Sherlock to mutter these words to him, however, he didn't mind hearing them at all. He chuckled quietly and blushed but then a smug grin appeared on his face as he kissed Sherlock again, eager to feel the detective's perfectly shaped lips on his again. He kissed him harder than before, running a hand through his dark curls. It worked; Sherlock did stop laughing. It was something that made John feel satisfied. He giggled and felt his cheeks flush even more. Every move he and Sherlock made felt right, but he couldn't help himself from being slightly nervous all the time. It didn't matter much, however, for he knew Sherlock was probably just as nervous as him – if not more.

Sherlock grunted as John's lips left his. The doctor pulled away, but didn't get up from the floor. He was still lying on top of Sherlock, doing no more than staring at his face. Sherlock stared back, his fingers gently stroking John's face. The two men didn't get up for another few minutes, they remained lying on the floor, both breathing heavily. Eventually, John sighed and he pushed himself upwards, using his strong, army trained arms. As soon as John was standing again, he lend Sherlock a hand a pulled him from the ground. Sherlock quickly pressed his lips against John's mouth one last time, before he said; 'I need to call Lestrade.'

* * *

Only moments later Sherlock was waiting impatiently for Lestrade to answer his phone. He sighed with annoyance when, instead of the DI, sergeant Donovan picked up. 'I need to speak to Lestrade.'

'He's not here, freak,' Donovan sneered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and replied, 'Hand him the phone. Now.'

'I told you, he's not here.'

Sherlock didn't believe Donovan, and without warning hung up on her. 'She's hopeless. I know Lestrade is at Scotland Yard, she could've handed him the phone with ease. She just wants to annoy us. They should sack her on the spot.'

'Who?' John asked, not knowing who Sherlock had spoken to. Sherlock ignored his question and dialled another number. 'Who're you calling now?'

'Apparently we can't get in touch with Lestrade, but we don't necessarily need him to get us in to Pentonville again.'

'We don't?'

'Of course not! There's an easier way, there always is.'

John raised an eyebrow, not entirely sure whether he should ask Sherlock what his plan was. 'Yes, hello, detective inspector Lestrade speaking,' Sherlock said in a voice nothing like his own, but nothing like Greg's either. John sighed. 'Is that Pentonville Prison?' he asked Sherlock quietly.

Sherlock nodded and continued. 'I'd like to ask one more favour of you, Mr Barnes. Yes. I believe that's his name. Yes. Exactly, that's the one. Yes. Yes. That'd be wonderful. No, he never goes anywhere on his own.' At these last words Sherlock shot a quick look at John, and winked. John smiled, he liked how Sherlock thought of him, constantly. 'Wonderful! Splendid. Thank you. Thank you so much. Okay, I'll make sure they're on their way. Okay, thank you. Thank you, bye.'

'I've never heard you speaking to anyone like that,' John said as Sherlock hung up the phone again.

'Speak to anyone like what?'

'You were incredibly polite! You said 'thank you' at least twenty times.'

'Four.'

John rolled his eyes, but then followed Sherlock, who had already put his coat on, out of the room. Sherlock was in such a hurry that he nearly knocked Mrs Hudson over when he came rushing down the stairs. 'Oh, Sherlock, I wish you were a little more careful,' she complained and then, turning to John, she added, 'He's so excited again, you must be working on a difficult case. Be a dear, and make sure he doesn't get himself hurt, will you?' She smiled at John and he nodded, promising her he wouldn't let anything happen to his friend. That calmed Mrs Hudson down, but it didn't stop her from calling after them. 'When you get home, we'll need to discuss the rent!' But neither of the men responded to this. She watched them run off, with a tiny smile on her face. Then she shook her face, and went back inside.

* * *

Sherlock's hand brushed John's. The duo stood outside Joseph Beck's cell and Sherlock had just told the guards to stay outside, when John had sighed nervously. The detective knew that Beck worried John; he didn't trust the killer at all. Sherlock muttered a few nice words to his boyfriend, before knocking the cell door. He opened it and stepped inside, his coat waving behind him. Joe Beck was sitting on his bench, and it seemed as if he hadn't moved since the last time they had visited him. He looked up, his rigid blue eyes immediately focusing on Sherlock's face. 'There's been another murder,' he stated. His voice sounded different from last time. Its pitch had changed, had become higher. John understood why. Beck was given hope, hope of being released and it had made him… cheerful.

Just like last time Sherlock sat down next to the killer and studied his face. Beck scratched his bald head, rubbing one of the tattoos on it carefully. He closed his eyes and breathed in, stretched his arms and sighed. Then he pointed at the door, 'They're going to release me soon enough, aren't they?'

Sherlock shrugged, 'I don't know,' he admitted. Joe Beck smiled a weak smile, then he finally turned to Sherlock and looked directly at him. 'What more do you need to know?'

'How do you know there's been a second murder?'

'Why else would you be here?'

'I could think of many reasons.'

'Give me one.'

Sherlock laughed. He was enjoying himself, far too much according to John. But Sherlock didn't notice John's concern anymore. He was fascinated by this man, although he didn't quite understand why. Joe Beck was honest, and said exactly what he thought, but his thoughts weren't as obvious and simple as most people with an ordinary mind.

'Do you regret what you did?' Sherlock asked, more out of curiosity than anything else. Beck raised an eyebrow before answering, 'I regret getting caught.'

Sherlock nodded, as if he understood. The look in Sherlock's eyes made John frown. It reminded him of how different the other man was from him and how he could be incredibly strange at times. It was moments like these that made John doubt Sherlock's sanity.

'If you could kill again, would you?'

Beck shook his head. 'No, I wouldn't risk ending up in jail again.'

'But, you took that risk when you killed, fifteen years ago,' Sherlock stated.

'I didn't know how awful prison was back then, did I?'

Sherlock scratched the back of his head, and smiled. He turned his head away from Beck and his eyes shot up to John, who was still standing near the cell door.

'Why?' John mouthed, wondering why Sherlock was asking the criminal questions that weren't of any importance to their investigation. All they needed to know was whether Joe had ever heard of Moriarty or Moran, and whether he knew where the Army's headquarters were. Sherlock didn't reply, but kept staring at him. John felt as if Sherlock's gaze went right through him. It took about a minute before Sherlock finally blinked and looked down. Staring at his shoes he muttered, 'Do you know a man named Moriarty?'

_MORIARTY! _Sherlock moaned as he heard the cabby from the Study in Pink case call out his archenemy's name. Back then he hadn't known what danger the consulting criminal would form.

'I do,' Joe Beck replied, not noticing that something was going on inside Sherlock's head. 'He created the Army.'

'Alone?' John interfered, realising that Sherlock wasn't completely present.

'No, he had a friend who helped him.'

'A friend?' John sniggered, 'That's most unlikely.'

'It's true!' Beck shouted angrily. John hesitated, but remained calm nevertheless. He didn't want to argue with the killer. 'He had a friend,' the criminal continued in a more quiet voice, 'I do not know his name, but I could give you a description if you like.'

'I hardly think that's necessary. We know who Sebastian Moran is,' Sherlock said, raising his head again. John could tell by the look in his friend's eyes that he wasn't feeling alright. Moriarty was getting inside his head again. John knew they had to get out of Pentonville as soon as possible, so that they could go home. 'Sherlock, maybe we should…'

'NO!' Sherlock's booming voice had John take a step back. 'I'm not done here.'

Joseph Beck shrugged. 'You could come back later if you have somewhere else to be right now,' he said friendly, 'I'll be here for a little while longer.'

Sherlock snorted, 'Obviously. But I'm not leaving, yet.'

John rolled his eyes and sighed but remained where he was, by the door. If Sherlock didn't leave, then neither would he.

'I need you to tell me everything there is to know about the Riot Army, so we can catch our killer. The latest body we found was killed in exactly the same way as the Sarah Collins, we concluded that this is the work of the same killer. Did that happen more often? That one member of the Army killed multiple people?'

Joe shrugged, 'I suppose so, if they felt like it.'

'If they felt like it? You mean that Moriarty didn't order them to kill anyone?'

'You think we worked for Moriarty? No,' Beck muttered as he looked to his left, only to find Sherlock staring at him with penetrating eyes, 'He considered us his equals, or so he said. We didn't _work_ for him, he didn't pay us. Every member of the Army killed for pleasure.'

There was a long silence, and all three men thought the exact same words. 'Except for Moriarty. He didn't kill,' Joe Beck echoed their thoughts.

'Then what did he do?'

Beck shrugged, 'I don't know,' he whispered quietly. A shiver ran down his spine as he talked about his past. 'But I never liked him much. Scary bloke.'

'Tell me more,' Sherlock said in a brisk voice. 'Tell me everything.'

'I only met Moriarty and the man you call Moran a few times. They didn't come to all our gatherings,' the killer told Sherlock, 'And when he came he never said much. He would open the meeting, speak a few words, and then he left again.'

'What did he say?' Sherlock asked, not sure whether he even wanted to know.

'He spoke of life and death. About how boring life could be…'

_It's so boring, isn't it? _

'… how he considered death as nothing more than a friend who'd greet us in the end...'

_Don't be scared._

'…how we could change our lives with the murders we committed. Break free from the chains on our arms preventing us from having fun…'

_Falling's just like flying…_

'…he said ordinary people were all the same, he said we were different…'

_Except there's a more permanent destination._

Sherlock wasn't listening to Joseph Beck anymore. He had closed his eyes and breathed heavily. One hand pressed against his temple, the other, which he held against his mouth, clenched into a fist. 'John…' he gasped.

_Permanent destination…_

'Is he alright?' Joe Beck's voice hardly came through.

_Don't be scared._

Sherlock grunted again and John ran up to him, ignoring the criminal who looked at the duo in surprise when John held Sherlock's face in his hands. Sherlock's face was wet from both sweat and tears running down his cheeks. He flinched as images of Moriarty shot through his mind. The consulting criminal looked frighteningly real, and Sherlock couldn't block him out anymore.

Jim Moriarty looked up at the detective, a smile on his face. He sipped his tea and raised an eyebrow. _Don't be scared. _

Sherlock was no longer aware of John tugging his shoulders and calling his name. He wasn't aware of Joe Beck looking worried and afraid, shouting an address when he got up and left the cell. He wasn't even aware of the security guards, who jumped up as the door swung open. Sherlock left Pentonville Prison, unaware of everything around him.

* * *

John didn't know what to do. The entire world had slowed down and seemed to spin around him. Something inside Sherlock's head had gone terribly wrong, and nothing seemed to work. It had taken a great deal of effort to get him home, and after John had finally managed that, he had put Sherlock down on the sofa. Sherlock had closed his eyes, but they flew open every time he gasped loudly.

'Sherlock,' John whispered another time. He was kneeling beside the couch, studying the detective's face. The taller man remained quiet. It was getting rather late, and John had made himself some dinner, but he couldn't eat. He was too worried about the man lying restlessly on the sofa. He had done everything he could for him, as a doctor and a friend as well, but Sherlock didn't seem to feel any better. It was as if he was asleep, constantly waking up from horrible nightmares. His face was still sweaty, and John kept wiping his forehead.

His eyes had been shut for a while now, and his movements were becoming calmer. He didn't twist and turn as much as before and his breathing became steadier. John got up from his knees and walked up to Sherlock's chair. He lifted it and moved it over to the couch. It landed with a soft thud. Then he grabbed the pillow with the flag print on it and held it in his hands, while staring at Sherlock for a while. He crouched again and with one arm lifted Sherlock's head from the sofa. He placed the pillow beneath the detective's neck, then got up again and sat down in the chair next to him.

Sherlock was still wearing his coat, and John decided it would be best for him to keep it on, just to make sure he wouldn't get cold. The doctor sighed and hung back, his head resting on the leaning of the chair. He stared at Sherlock until the detective fell asleep, and then finally he closed his own eyes.

* * *

**We really feel for Sherlock on this one... But it's all fine because John is there to help him :)  
Lots of Joe in these two chapters - please tell us what you think of him by reviewing, not to mention all the other stuff in this story. Thanks so much for reading, you are all wonderful!**


	10. Chapters 19 and 20

**19. Riot Army Headquarters**

John woke up with an aching pain is his neck. He was sitting in the same position as the one he had fallen asleep in. He rubbed his neck and relaxed his muscles. He didn't pay much attention to himself though; as soon as he remembered the previous day, he looked at Sherlock.

The man was still fast asleep and hadn't moved all night. John was glad to see he was breathing steadily and, when he felt his forehead, realised that his fever had died down a bit. He didn't think that Sherlock would want to eat when he woke up, but made him some toast anyway.

Just as he walked back to his chair, Sherlock stirred. The detective moaned, frowned in his not so fast sleep and started kicking his legs. His muscles tensed and he muttered unintelligible words.

'Sherlock,' John said, touching his boyfriend's shoulder. Sherlock didn't wake up immediately at the touch, which worried John. Sherlock was not a heavy sleeper. John decided it must be some sort of aftershock, and stayed by his friend's side, holding his hand.

After what seemed like hours, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, looking around in confusion as disorientation hit him. John noticed that his eyes were brighter than they had been the day before, after what happened in Joe's cell. They were also wet, and his lips were quivering as he took a few small breaths.

'How are you feeling?' John asked softly, squeezing his hand. He laid his hand on Sherlock's forehead, feeling no difference in temperature than earlier that morning. His heart rate seemed normal, too, not like it had been the night before. John recalled he had panicked when he couldn't seem to get Sherlock's heart rate down, no matter what he tried.

Sherlock moved his head to the right, struggling to focus on the doctor's face. John moved his hand from the detective's forehead to his cheek, patting it to stimulate his vision and focus. Sherlock blinked a few times, and the hand that John wasn't holding shot up to his face, closing his fingers around John's wrist like an iron glove.

'John,' he croaked. 'What happened?'

'You… blacked out, or something. I don't know, exactly. I do know that it happened again… Joe was talking about – ' John hesitated, ' – him. About Riot Army.'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He had no recollection of it. He didn't remember walking out of Pentonville, let alone Joe's cell.

'How did I get here?' he asked next, squeezing John's hand back with trembling muscles.

'By yourself. You were out of it, I couldn't get to you. You scared me, Sherlock.'

'I'm sorry,' Sherlock whispered, resting his head back on the pillow John had stuffed underneath his head.

'Don't apologise, Sherlock,' John said, overcome by emotions. The man could be so confusing at times. Sometimes, he refused to thank or apologise to anyone. But at times when it wasn't necessary at all, he did. John closed his eyes for a moment, hating the feeling of helplessness and hating what Moriarty kept doing to his friend.

Sherlock said nothing. He was staring at the ceiling, again losing his focus as his thoughts drifted off.

'John,' he said suddenly. 'I need to eat.'

John was baffled. He looked at the tall man on the sofa, not quite believing what he had heard.

'I – well, I made some toast, if you…' He stammered, starting to get up.

'That would be nice,' Sherlock muttered, taking a deep breath and letting go of John's hand, brushing it with his fingers as he  
pulled away.

John came back shortly, carrying a plate with some toast on it. 'Do you want anything on it?' he asked, already knowing the answer.

'No, it's fine,' Sherlock said, still in a soft, weak voice.

'You still haven't told me how you're feeling,' John noticed, remembering his earlier question on which he hadn't gotten an answer. 'Are you all right?'

'Tired. Drained – I've got a head ache. I'm shaking, I'm cold…' Sherlock coughed. 'No, I'm not all right,' he added softly. His picked up a bit of toast with trembling fingers, studying it before breaking a tiny piece off and putting it in his mouth.

John examined Sherlock, looked at him, felt him. 'Your fever has died down a bit,' he said, putting his hand on the detective's forehead for the third time that morning. 'Your body does feel cold. Hang on, I'll get you a blanket…'

'No,' Sherlock said, a bit louder than he meant to. It made his voice go hoarse again and he coughed to get rid of it. He winced as he felt a sharp pain in his head. 'No,' he repeated. 'I don't want a blanket. I want you.'

John's own heart rate started to elevate as he heard those last three words. His expression softened as a warm smile appeared on his face, and he got up from his chair and lay down beside the sick man, who moved over a bit to make the room. They didn't quite fit on the sofa side by side, so they shifted position in a way they could still look at each other, but that John wouldn't fall.  
Sherlock smiled, and John saw the beginning of the familiar spark in the tall man's eyes. The detective closed them after a while but pressed his hand to John's back, pulling him closer. Feeling another cold shiver wash over him, he pulled his coat over John's body as well. Immediately feeling the warmth of the other man's body, Sherlock shivered again, but this time of satisfaction.

'I think I'm feeling a bit better,' he whispered. 'I guess all I needed was a doctor.'

At this, he pulled John even closer, leaning in and brushed his lips against the shorter man's.

'I meant it. You are…' Sherlock kissed John a bit harder. 'Perfect…'

'You are, too,' John whispered back, but Sherlock was already too engaged in the situation. His words came out in a muffled mumble, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice. He had moved his left leg over John's body, hovering above him. He rested his weight on his elbows, placed beside John's head.

Sherlock let out a deep sigh, feeling nothing of his earlier discomforts anymore. All he felt now was John, whose hands clasped the back of his shirt under his coat so tightly.

John felt Sherlock's breath in his neck again, the familiar tingles spreading through his already tense body. Unconsciously, he rested his head back on the pillow, savouring every feeling Sherlock triggered in him. Sherlock couldn't resist moving his lips from John's mouth to his throat, brushing the skin as he did so. Feeling John respond with a shiver, he pressed his lips to John's neck with a grin. He felt John's grip on his shirt tighten as he moved his lips upwards again, towards the man's jaw. Sherlock's warm breath made John's skin tingle, goose bumps spreading all over his arms, neck and shoulders. Sherlock obviously noticed and John felt Sherlock's teeth touching his earlobe as the detective grinned in delight.

John wanted to feel Sherlock's lips on his again, and turned his head to the left, catching Sherlock by surprise as their noses brushed. Both men couldn't keep themselves from chuckling, and John saw that Sherlock's eyes had regained their sparkle and full brightness. He was feeling better.

Seeing him so happy, John couldn't resist taking the detective's head in his hands and whispering, 'I love you so much, Sherlock…'

'I love you, John.' Sherlock rested his forehead on John's, breathing heavily. Feeling Sherlock's breath against his face, John couldn't wait any longer. Sherlock knew what John wanted, his muscles tensed and he felt the doctor's hands pull his face closer.  
Sherlock grinned and lowered his head, pressing his lips to John's without any hesitation.

A small moan escaped John's mouth as he felt Sherlock's entire weight on him, the detective's lips on his. He tried to pull him even closer, putting one hand on his back and the other on the back of his head, his fingers playing with his dark curls.

Sherlock loved how John's fingers always ran through his hair and did the same in return. After continuing this for a while, he sat up and looked at the other man, still on his back, breathing heavily. A tiny smile played around his lips and one of his eyebrows was raised in a teasing way.

'Did you really sit here all night?' Sherlock asked, directing towards the chair. John nodded. 'Couldn't keep my eyes off you,' he answered. One of the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched. He bit his lip and looked down, but at that moment, John sat up as well, and he put his arms around Sherlock's neck. 'I can never take my eyes off you. You are perfect, Sherlock.'

Sherlock chuckled, like John not really believing what the other man had said. But he heard the sincerity in John's voice and knew that the doctor had meant those words, just like he had meant them when he had said them the day before.

With soft movements, Sherlock put his arms around John's body, pulling him close. John gasped when he felt Sherlock's hands on his waist, and closed his eyes when he felt Sherlock's muscles move, indicating he was lowering his head. John kept his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open – he was breathing heavily – and waited. His patience was rewarded by a soft kiss from the other man, turning into a more passionate kiss as time progressed. The room was quiet, apart from the soft moans and grunts coming from the two men sitting on the sofa, using their arms to push the other back. Because John was stronger than him,  
Sherlock used his whole body – and his mind. Knowing how John would react to certain movements, he grinned and moved his hand to the doctor's leg. John lost his focus when he felt Sherlock's hand softly rubbing his thigh and shivered uncontrollably. Sherlock laughed out loud in victory as he succeeded in pushing John on his back again, and continued kissing him enthusiastically.

John grunted when he felt Sherlock's lips on his again, both of annoyance and satisfaction. He grinned as an idea popped into his head, and kissed Sherlock back with all his attention. He opened his mouth a bit more and softly bit Sherlock's lip, grinning when he felt the detective jerk back a little.

'Oh, is that how we're playing?' he muttered softly, still rubbing John's thigh with his right hand, using the other to keep himself from falling on top of John. John didn't succeed in suppressing another moan before Sherlock started kissing him again. 'Shut up,' Sherlock muttered. John's noises made it hard for him to think straight.

'Make me,' John chuckled, remembering the previous day. He waited eagerly for Sherlock's lips on his again, but when he felt nothing, he opened his eyes slightly. He saw Sherlock staring at him with such a loving expression on his face and smiled broadly. So this was how true love felt. 'Sherlock,' he tried to whisper, but his voice was suddenly very thick and he had to swallow to keep tears from streaming down his cheeks. 'Sherlock…'

'John?' Sherlock's whisper came out like a question, for his voice had gone hoarse again, high-pitched in that familiar way when emotions threatened to overcome him. Not able to find any words that could describe how he felt, Sherlock pressed his lips to John's again, who was waiting expectantly.

This time, Sherlock barely suppressed a grunt of his own. The kind of effect another person had on him was overwhelming. He had never known true love, and he had never known what it could do to people, but he knew now that being with John was the best decision he had ever made. Everything he did with him felt right, as if they were made for each other.

Sherlock's left arm was getting tired from pulling himself up all the time, so he let go and dropped himself carefully on the other man, making sure his weight wouldn't bother him. John sighed when he felt Sherlock's weight on him, their mouths only separated by half an inch.

Sherlock felt John's warm breath on his face and realised he no longer felt cold – in fact, quite the opposite. Blood had rushed to his head, his heart was pumping ferociously, trying to keep up with the action. He sat up again, telling John with his eyes it wasn't over, yet, and took his coat off in one smooth motion. Sherlock hesitated for a second, then shrugged and unbuttoned his jacket as well, throwing it in the chair in which John had slept.

John's heart beat faster when he saw Sherlock's muscles underneath his black button-down shirt and sat up again, too, eager to feel those muscles move beneath his hands. John grinned when he finally succeeded in pushing Sherlock over on his back, using his equally strong leg muscles to keep him there. He placed his hands beside the detective's head, and looked down at him with a mischievous smile. He loved being in charge – having all the power. It reminded him of the army, ordering people around and being the one everyone went to when they had a problem. Sherlock knew what John was thinking and would have crossed his arms in front of his chest if it hadn't been for John blocking the way. Instead, he looked at the pleased doctor with one raised eyebrow, quasi-mocking him.

John sniggered and bent down through his arms to kiss the handsome detective. Sherlock didn't mind not being in the dominant position, but he couldn't keep himself from curling his hands around John's waist and moving them downwards, rubbing softly until he ended up at his thighs again. Sherlock chuckled in delight when he felt John's grip on him tremble, losing his balance. John landed on Sherlock's chest with a soft thud, causing both of them to laugh out loud. It had been long since John had felt Sherlock's chest rumble with the sound of their laughter, and he enjoyed every moment of it.

'You've got to stop doing that,' he mumbled after a while, when their laughter had died down.

'Stop doing what?' Sherlock asked, his hands on John's back, gently rubbing it.

'Well…' John said, embarrassed to put it into words. 'This,' he said with an evil grin. He moved his hands from Sherlock's chest to his waist, his fingers following the lines of his body. He didn't stop at the man's waist, but continued on. When he reached the beginning of the man's trousers, Sherlock chuckled and muttered, 'Oh, you're a bad man, doctor Watson…'

John giggled nervously, but continued rubbing the other man's legs. Sherlock was now the one who was clearly having trouble keeping a straight face. John felt Sherlock's hands grip the back of his jumper tightly, and decided not to torture him any longer.  
Sherlock's head was tilted backwards, enjoying the waves of pleasure John caused. He closed his eyes when he felt John shift position, a knowing smile appearing on his face. He felt the tips of John's fingers touch his jaw, not long before he felt John's breath blow past it as well. 'John,' he tried to say in a whining tone, but his voice trailed off when he felt John's warm, soft lips touch his neck. He frowned and let out a deep breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

John's hands moved upwards again, to Sherlock's chest, where he started to play with the buttons on his shirt.

Taking advantage of John's short distraction, Sherlock pushed the doctor's head sideways so he could kiss him again. John, caught by surprise once again, flinched, and in doing so, unbuttoned part of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock didn't care, though, and continued kissing John, stroking his cheeks with his hands. He kissed him harder than ever before, wanting to feel everything of John at once, wanting to feel him all around him, and only him. He used his left hand to pull John's face closer, and keeping him there when he was as close as possible.

'John,' he gasped. 'I… need you to...' He didn't get the chance to finish his sentence, for John had given in completely and pressed himself closer to Sherlock's body, almost pushing the other man in the sofa. He felt that two hands weren't enough to feel all of Sherlock's magnificent body, one running through his soft curls and the other constantly switching from his back, his shoulders, his arms, his chest.

Their lips were locked, glued together, almost. Their eyes were closed, their thoughts on hold. All that mattered at that moment was the other.

Eventually, John's lips let go of Sherlock's, though it took a while before he started to get up. When he did, the consulting detective followed him immediately and took the doctor in his arms again, not wanting to leave the happy, warm feelings they had both experienced.

'Sherlock…' John muttered, trying to push the other man away – though he wasn't really trying. 'We've got a case…'

'Hmmm…' Sherlock just sighed. Not realising how much strength he used to push John back, he kissed his jaw, breathing heavily in between. John stumbled backwards a bit, tripping over the chair and falling in it, followed by Sherlock. John laughed, amused by Sherlock's enthusiasm. 'Are you okay?'

'More than okay,' Sherlock said, looking at John with his bright – green? – eyes, making John feel as if he could see his thoughts, his soul.

'We've got a case,' John repeated softly.

'We've got no leads,' Sherlock said with raised eyebrows. 'We're not any closer to finding out from where Riot Army operates, where Moriarty is.'

'We do,' John answered, amused by Sherlock's confused frown. 'You were out of it yesterday, remember? When I got you up and called for the guards, Joe shouted an address to me. I think that's where the headquarters might have been fifteen years ago.'

'Oh.' Sherlock frowned, getting up from the chair. John followed, a lot more clumsily.

Sherlock immediately started pacing around the flat, and it pleased John to see him the way he used to be. It frightened him that Sherlock could black out like that just by the thought of Moriarty.

But the thought of Moriarty is worse in his head than the actual person, John reminded himself. When those two meet again,  
Sherlock will be as calm as ever, probably even wondering why he had ever felt this way.

'Do you think Moriarty or Moran will be there?' John asked. It had been bothering him from the moment Joe had given them the address. He felt like he wasn't quite ready yet to meet either one of them.

'I don't know. They might have used another building to hide in than fifteen years ago, but it might be the same. I suggest we take our guns with us – we don't want a situation like the warehouse again.'

'God, no,' John whispered and shuddered in horror. He had not been able to get over the fact that they had gone to a potentially dangerous place, unarmed. It could have been the last day of their lives, and it would have been for him if it wasn't for the consulting detective.

'Where is it?' Sherlock asked. John gave him the address and Sherlock's eyes narrowed. 'It's not a particularly bad neighbourhood, although I can see why you'd want to stay away from it. Homeless Network is particularly active there, maybe we should ask them first if they know anything about the place. If it might be dangerous, for example…'

'We know it's dangerous,' John said. Sherlock looked at him, a tiny smile playing around his lips. John didn't look worried at all – danger was what he lived for.

'Is there anything else I missed?'

'Huh?' John answered.

'Did I miss anything else, something Joe told us?' Sherlock looked bothered. It wasn't like him to drift off into his own thoughts – his own nightmares – when he was interrogating someone. Moriarty really did bring out the worst in him.

'No, not really. He was just talking about what Moriarty would say to them during a meeting.'

Sherlock nodded. 'Let's go over the rest he said yesterday. We need to make sure we use everything he says – he's the only source we have.'

'Sure,' John said. Sherlock looked at him suspiciously. 'Are you starting to like him, too?' he asked, picking up his coat from the floor.

'Well, "like" is a big word…' John murmured. 'You should have seen how he reacted, though – when you lost it. He was genuinely concerned. No psychopath would act that way.'

Sherlock nodded again. He understood how John's mind worked. He wouldn't trust anyone who didn't immediately seem in his right mind. It was why he hadn't trusted Sherlock immediately, as well – though, for someone like John, that had happened rather quickly.

'Put your coat on, we're going out,' Sherlock said cheerfully. John jumped up at the sound of his loud voice, in search for his coat. Realising it was downstairs, beside the front door, he smiled and took Sherlock's hand, surprising them both. He pulled the other man with him, downstairs, almost running into Mrs Hudson again.

'You're going out again?' she asked. 'I told you we need to discuss the rent.'

'Sorry, Mrs Hudson, can't wait,' John called, still dragging the detective with him. Sherlock shrugged at Mrs Hudson and followed his boyfriend out, grinning at the feel of the doctor's strong hand.

John let go to put his coat on, but as soon as he was done with it, Sherlock grabbed his hand again, blushing slightly. He nodded towards the door, squeezing John's hand. John smiled; he couldn't care less.

As soon as they put one foot over the threshold, Sherlock's coat caught a gust of wind, blowing the heavy fabric around his legs.

With his other hand, the detective closed the coat at the front, so he wouldn't get cold. John couldn't help but smile at the man, just as another strong blow of wind blew Sherlock's dark curls in his face. John laughed and shook his head as Sherlock mumbled, 'stupid weather.'

'Maybe you should turn your collar up,' John advised. 'Or put your hat on.'

Sherlock looked sideways at John, both with an expression of amusement and annoyance on his face. 'It's not my hat.'

John giggled. He was in the best mood possible, even though they were going to a dangerous place.

'Have you brought your gun?' John asked, suddenly realising what they were actually going to do.

'Yes,' Sherlock said with a grin. 'And yours.'

'Mine?' John stammered. 'Oh. God, I am so _stupid_…'

'Sorry. I distracted you.' Sherlock looked around, but no one was staring at them for a change, so he handed John his gun, which he'd been hiding underneath his coat. John realised he had assumed Sherlock had closed his coat because of the cold, instead of the two guns that were stuffed away.

'You did distract me. Not that I care,' John added in a soft mumble.

* * *

'Okay, John, you need to listen to me very carefully.'

John rolled his eyes, barely able to keep himself from saying that he always listened to Sherlock very carefully.

'It's in the morning, but that doesn't mean it's not dangerous. I spoke to some of the Homeless Network and they said that Moran often comes here. We don't know what he does here, and we don't know why, but we do know that no one has seen anyone looking like Moriarty in this neighbourhood. I think it's safe to assume Moriarty won't be here.'

'Moran is just as dangerous,' John said.

'Yes, in the physical way even more so. But he is not as clever as Moriarty – or, frankly, even you and me. There is no need to panic. We're armed, this time…'

John nodded. Every time he and Sherlock were about to do something dangerous, he got butterflies in his stomach. He was addicted to danger, to the rush one gets when in pressing situations.

But he was also feeling a crushing sense of panic. What if something went badly wrong this time? What if something happened to Sherlock?

Sherlock was in the middle of a sentence when John suddenly flung himself around his neck, causing him to take a step backwards.

'John, what the – ?'

'I love you Sherlock, and if anything's going to happen in there, I want you to know that I've never loved anyone like I love you.'

'John…' Sherlock whispered, frowning at the shorter man. 'Nothing's going to happen.'

'How can you know? I nearly died at the warehouse, because we were so stupid not to bring guns!'

Sherlock sighed. He knew; he couldn't promise nothing would happen in the big building opposite them. 'John, I love you, too. I've never loved anyone before, not like this, but I know that I can truly say that I'll never love anyone like I love you.' With his left hand – in which he wasn't holding his gun – he tilted John's chin up, forcing him to look him in the eye. 'We'll be fine,' he muttered and pressed his lips to John's for a brief moment.

'You ready?' he asked, a worried frown crossing his face.

John nodded. 'As ready as I'll ever be,' he replied, a determined sparkle in his blue eyes.

Sherlock started forward, John at his heels. The building was in central London, which had surprised Sherlock. The street was open at one side, which surprised them even more. Perhaps they'd gotten used to dark alleys over the past few days.

Sherlock examined the lock on the door, concluding there had been broken into before. He figured that the headquarters of a criminal organisation must be secured, but the criminals in the organisation might have broken into it once or twice themselves.  
Moriarty wouldn't go to the trouble of having fifty keys made for them to get in whenever they wanted.

It did make it easier for them to get into, though. One blow from the shoulder was enough for the old door to give in and they went inside, cautiously handling their guns.

The hall was huge and nothing like the old, busted door. Marble tiles decorated the floor, and two big flights of stairs covered the left and the right wall, ending at the same landing, a balustrade covering the middle section, looking over the hall.

'Dull,' Sherlock muttered.

'What is?' John whispered back.

'The place where we have to be is upstairs,' Sherlock snorted. 'Always upstairs…'

'How do you know?' John asked, looking around in confusion.

'There are no other halls or rooms attached to this, except for that broom cupboard. The door opposite us is simply a way to get to the courtyard. No other rooms are linked to that courtyard.'

'How can you possibly – '

Sherlock tapped the side of his head and shot John a meaningful look. Of course, John thought. Sherlock knew London like no one else – they had once chased a taxi using nothing but side streets, alleys and rooftops, and they had succeeded in catching up with it, as well.

Sherlock was already on the stairs, and John hurried to follow his example. Together, they crept up the stairs, flinching at every squeak it made.

The top landing was big, as well, though not as big as the hall beneath it. There were two hallways, branching off to the left and the right side. Sherlock heard John mutter a soft 'Jesus', but he wasn't too worried himself. He knew he ought to be able to figure out what side all those criminals went fifteen years ago.

'Right,' he said after a while.

'How –?'

'Look, John, really look. You can figure it out.' Sherlock thought this was an excellent way to "teach" John his ways of observation.  
John frowned, obviously not happy with the idea of him imitating his boyfriend, but to please him, he stepped forward anyway.  
At first sight, the two hallways looked exactly the same. He was about to give up when he noticed that the carpet on the right hallway looked older, as if hundreds of people had passed by once a month, he estimated from what he had heard from Joe.

'The carpet,' he said.

'And…?'

John shrugged. 'We're wasting our time here, Sherlock. Do you honestly think I can see the exact same things you do?'

'Well, maybe with some practise,' Sherlock said, feeling a bit offended. 'You're better than most people…'

John smiled at the compliment, nodding towards the hallway. 'Let's go, then.'

They started around the corner together, paying attention to everything. They didn't want to make a mistake like the warehouse again.

The hallway seemed to go on forever, but eventually, they came across a set of glass doors, leading to a huge meeting room.

'My God,' John whispered as he looked at the rows of chairs. 'A room full of murderers. What on earth could they have been discussing here?'

'Their murders, obviously,' Sherlock said, looking around the hall. There was an old fashioned stage at the back, the way the chairs were facing, but apparently, it had been ignored as the curtains were closed and a flat screen TV had been placed in front of it.

He noticed a small red light go on and off, and walked up to the TV, curious what it might be.  
'John,' he called, after examining the DVD-player that had been placed underneath. 'I think they've left a message…'

'What could it be?' John asked. 'A tape of one of their meetings, perhaps?'

'Could be,' Sherlock muttered, although he had a strange sense of foreboding. 'Only way to find out…'

He pressed the "play" button. His heart started pounding. He knew it wasn't a good sign – why would they leave a TV like that in an abandoned building? They didn't even have TV's like that fifteen years ago.

'Hello, boys!'

Sherlock jumped backwards at the sound.

It was Moriarty.

**20. The Chase**

The sound was everywhere. It came from every corner of the room, echoing off the walls.  
Sherlock stared at the screen in horror, his heart pounding fast, his breathing coming in spasms.

'I knew you'd be coming here eventually, so I set up this little video for you and Johnnyboy to watch,' Moriarty said. 'Duh… What do you think of Riot Army, by the way? Quite clever, right? I mean, I was only a teenager myself. Oh, happy memories…'

John knew Sherlock was losing it, so he grabbed the detective's hand to keep him focused. It seemed to help a little, and Sherlock was able to think rationally. Moriarty wasn't there. He was only on the video.

'I see you have been able to convince the papers that Richard Brook isn't real,' Moriarty said in a high voice, clearly mocking him. He was holding a newspaper. 'Oh, look right here – you and John are together? How adorable…'

Sherlock gritted his teeth. What was the point of this video? Mocking them?

'Let's get to the point, shall we?' Moriarty said, as if he had read his thoughts. He probably had, Sherlock figured. He suddenly looked dead serious, his mood had changed in a heart beat. Sherlock remembered every second he had spent with Moriarty – mood swings were quite common.

'I know _you _know that the clue to solving these murders is finding me,' Moriarty said with a smile. 'But finding me is a bit of a challenge, isn't it? So that's why I thought; why not help – ' Moriarty looked down at the newspaper again, ' – Hat-man and Robin? Why not give them a clue? Just a teensy one...'

Sherlock frowned. Why not give them a clue… _Why does anyone do anything?  
_  
'Listen closely,' Moriarty whispered, beckoning them closer. John's hand hurt, because Sherlock was squeezing it tightly. It didn't bother him, though – whatever helped Sherlock helped him.

'You know what?' Moriarty mused, looking around. 'I've already given you one.'  
_  
I'm sooooo changeable…  
_  
'What?' John exclaimed. 'What does he mean? He's said nothing! Nothing! This isn't possible…' John's voice trailed off as he heard footsteps behind them, coming from the open door.

'Here we are again…' Moran said.  
_  
We were made for each other, Sherlock…  
_  
'I've told you before – your lifeline is very short,' Moran sneered. Sherlock saw he held up a gun, which could, more correctly, be called a rifle. Sherlock grunted as a sudden pain hit him in the head.  
_  
Someone else is holding a rifle…  
_  
'You have come very far, indeed.'  
_  
… I don't like getting my hands dirty.  
_  
'Sherlock,' John said, squeezing his hand with all his might. 'Lower that gun, Moran, or I'll blow your head off,' he growled, suddenly very protective of his boyfriend.

Moran laughed, a criminal-like laugh you would most likely see in a film. His shoulders shook and his face was turned to the ceiling, frowning in an evil smile.

'I mean it!' John shouted, half his mind on keeping Sherlock focused. 'DROP IT, NOW!'

Moran raised his eyebrows, clearly taken aback. He made no move, however, of lowering his gun, let alone dropping it.  
'You leave me no choice,' John grumbled, removing the security pin on his gun with his thumb. 'Sherlock, _focus_!' he shouted desperately. 'Please…'

John's pleading voice triggered something in Sherlock's brain, an overwhelming urge to help the doctor he loved so much.

As soon as I shoot, he'll shoot back, John thought. He'll hit me, or even worse – he'll hit Sherlock. I can't let that happen. I can't –

'I wonder who'll die first,' Moran mused. 'You or me… Whose lifeline in shortest?'

'It certainly isn't mine,' Sherlock growled, raising his own gun.  
_  
Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?  
_  
'It's not mine!' he shouted. 'Remove that gun, Moran, or I will shoot you.'

'Hah!' Moran just barked. 'What will you do if I don't?'

'This,' Sherlock said, pointing his gun at the ceiling. He shot twice, concentrating on his target with all his might. He quickly pulled John backwards as the lighting came down, just a few feet away from them and Moran. Moran actually had to sidestep to avoid getting crushed by it, shouting 'JESUS CHRIST!' and dropping his gun.

'Follow me,' Sherlock said, grabbing John by his arm. 'He'll have backup.'

John did as he was told, glad to be able to move for a change. Sherlock dashed for the stage, not bothering to use the steps, but leaped on it in one smooth movement. John, not being as tall, couldn't jump on the stage in one go, so Sherlock helped him up, keeping an eye on Moran. He was still staring at the crushed mechanism on the floor, but soon shook his head and reached for another gun, stuffed away beside his hip. He didn't hesitate to shoot.

'Run, John!' Sherlock screamed, pointing towards the back end of the stage. John could see the faint glow of an exit light and ran for it. He was terrified Sherlock would get hurt, but he didn't have time to look back. He had to trust Sherlock on getting himself safe, and he had no problem with trusting him.

He reached the exit door just as Moran realised he'd have to follow them if he wanted them dead. The big blond man rushed towards the stage, but it was too late – Sherlock had blocked the door from the outside.

John took the little time they had to look around. They were on a kind of balcony, or a lower piece of rooftop. They were at least twenty-five feet off the ground, and they heard muffled gunshots behind them.

'John,' Sherlock called, beckoning him closer. He grabbed John firmly by the shoulders, looking him in the eye with his penetrating stare. 'Do you trust me?'

'Of course I do,' was John's resolute answer.

'Good. Now, follow me.'

Sherlock turned around, and used a few rain pipes to climb on top of the higher roof. John sighed in disbelief but followed, as the secured exit door took another pounding of gunshots.

It took no longer than a minute for John to reach the main roof, where Sherlock was already waiting. The detective stretched out his hand, helping him up.

Sherlock turned around again, John's hand still clasped in his own. He glanced briefly over his shoulder at the man running just behind him.

'You trust me, right?'

Without any hesitation, Sherlock let go of John's hand and jumped onto another rooftop, over a gap of at least three feet.

'I trust you, I don't trust my jumping abilities,' John called after him.

'John, hurry up!' Sherlock screamed, his gaze shifting to something behind John. Moran had been able to break down the door and was coming after them.

John figured he had no choice. He took a few steps back and remembered the taxi chase. Taking a deep breath, he burst forward and jumped, focusing on Sherlock's face. Sherlock smiled and turned around once more, running towards a flight of emergency stairs.

'Quickly, John,' Sherlock called after him, his head appearing over the edge of the building again. John hurried to catch up with the tall detective he loved so much, not taking the time to look at the pissed-off, ex-army criminal closing in on them.

When they reached the pavement, John could finally breathe a bit more easily. But they were not safe yet, for they heard the sound of boots on iron above them. Sherlock shot inside a narrow alley filled with rubbish and graffiti, going left when they reached the end. They ran a few pedestrians over, but neither of them took the time to apologise – there was a vicious murderer chasing them.

'This way!' Sherlock shouted, pulling John along into another, bigger, alley. John, stumbling behind, knocked a few bins over but kept running nevertheless. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest. He knew it wasn't because he was getting tired, it was because of excitement. He looked over his shoulder, but didn't see Moran anywhere. 'He's no longer behind us!'

'Yes, he is!' Sherlock replied, and just at that moment gunshots were fired. John looked for a second time, and this time saw Sebastian Moran coming around the corner, his gun aimed at the duo. The three bullets missed their targets and hit a rubbish bin and two houses. Moran let out a grunt of frustration. Sherlock, still holding his own gun, swung his arm backwards, and pulled the trigger. His bullet hit the ground in front of Moran's feet and the criminal swore under his breath. John didn't dare shoot, afraid he would hit innocent citizens. There was panic all around them. People ducked, tried to hide, or bumped into each other. Some of them were knocked over, fell down and remained on the floor, trembling in fear. 'Sherlock! We've got to get off the streets!' John shouted. He didn't want anyone else get hurt because of them. Sherlock took a left and panted, 'We can't. This is the only way to escape him!'

Another gun shot was fired behind them and was followed almost immediately by two others. John didn't have to look to know that Moran was no longer on his own. Two other men had joined him. 'Get down!' John tugged Sherlock's arm and pulled him to the floor. He pinned him to the ground for a few seconds as another seven bullets flew over their heads. John sighed as he realised that they would've been hit, if they hadn't ducked. In any other situation Sherlock and John would've looked each other in the eyes a little longer than necessary but there wasn't any time, now. They got up and ran off again, faster than before because Moran and his men were gaining up on them. Sherlock zigzagged through the streets, and John followed him blindly. He trusted the consulting detective completely. Sherlock was the man to rely on, when it came to rushing through the streets of London. John heard the detective pant heavily, and he felt his own throat getting dry, but both of them knew that they couldn't stop running, or even slow down. Sherlock gasped as a bullet missed him by only a few inches. Every time a shot was fired he flinched a little, but then looked at John, just to make sure he was alright. The doctor was fine, though.

They turned another corner, and entered another small alley, which was quite forlorn. There were only a few people who looked up in surprise when the duo came rushing by, followed by the other three men. Moran had stopped firing bullets at them, for he knew he had to get closer to hit his targets. This gave Sherlock more time to think, and he eventually looked to his right. John looked up to him, sweating dripping down his forehead. They both knew that they wouldn't last much longer. Moran and his men were clearly trained for chases like these, and would be able to run faster on a longer distance than John and Sherlock.

'Plan?' John panted.

Sherlock nodded. He grabbed John's coat by the back and turned the doctor around. John faced Moran and his allies with a frightened look on his face. The three men came running into him with no hesitation.

'Don't move,' Sherlock whispered, his mouth close to John's ear. Even though the situation was dangerous, John couldn't help but enjoy the feeling of Sherlock's warm breath brush against his skin. Sherlock, too, had turned around and stood very still. He had a determined look on his face and without hesitation, raised his armed arm. John followed his example. Moran and the other two men staggered and came to halt a few feet away from them. 'Aim for the one on the left,' Sherlock muttered. John, who was now standing on the left of Sherlock, looked at the man opposite of him. His eyes were blank, and stared back with no interest in John at all. To him, John was just another face in the crowd, just another dead man walking. John licked his lips in concentration as he aimed for the man's heart. His hand was steady but his voice trembled as he whispered, 'There's three of them against the two of us. We can't win this.'

Sherlock shook his head in disagreement. 'We can. Don't shoot.'

'What?' John asked with clenched teeth, 'What do you mean 'don't shoot?''

'I need to talk to him first. If we shoot now, we'll get ourselves killed without gaining any information.'

'And now we'll get ourselves killed, but luckily, we'll gain information!' John replied sarcastically.

'Good deduction, John. You're still learning.'

John trusted Sherlock, but he hated he was kept in the dark once again. He needed to know for sure that they were out of danger. Of course they weren't, John thought, even though Sherlock's plans usually worked they never came without a risk.

'What are you doing? I could shoot right now,' Moran called out, a slight confused look on his face.

'That'd be dull,' Sherlock said coolly, 'Admit it, you don't like your victims to surrender. That would make it all too easy, wouldn't it?'

Moran frowned angrily, he knew Sherlock was right. He wanted to hunt his victims, like a lion hunts its prey.

'Tell me, are your two 'friends' also in the Riot Army?' He nodded towards Moran's allies. Moran nodded, a bit reluctant. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, 'Were they in it fifteen years ago?'

'Of course not,' Moran said contemptuously, 'The old members are all dead.'

'Did you kill them?'

Moran snorted, 'Do you need to ask? Of course I did.'

John didn't know what to do or say, he looked to his right. Sherlock showed no signs of panic, however John was certain he could hear Sherlock's heartbeat. 'Sherlock,' he whispered after clearing his throat, 'Sherlock, they'll kill us.'

The detective didn't reply and continued, 'Why do you do this? What's the point? What's in it for you? How much did he pay you this time?'

'Nothing,' Moran said, 'He doesn't need to pay me, I enjoying working alongside him.'

'Dear Sebastian,' Sherlock snorted, 'You don't work alongside Moriarty. You're his servant, he lets you do the dirty work.'

John knew Sherlock was more than right. Like Moriarty had once told them, he didn't like getting his hands dirty. But Sherlock wasn't done yet. 'You consider yourself his friend, how tragic. You're a nothing to him, just like the rest of the world. Moriarty cares but about one person…'

Moran clearly didn't like what he was hearing, and it took him some time to get his act together. 'And who would that be?' he sneered.

'Me.'

John saw that Moran looked down at the ground for a second and frowned. His allies looked at the criminal in confusion. John realised what Sherlock had done, and it was very much unlike him. He had played Moran's feelings and the hesitation of the criminal had given them just enough time. It happened in no more than a few seconds. Sherlock didn't even need to say 'shoot' this time, John had already pulled the trigger of his gun. The detective did the same. Both bullets hit their targets, and Moran's men fell to the ground. Sebastian Moran himself looked up in surprise and fired his gun multiple times, but the bullets didn't hit Sherlock nor John, who had plenty enough time to duck.

John turned as he heard glass shatter, a window in one of the houses had broken. Shards of glass came falling down, and landed on the pavement. One of the pieces, however, landed on a rubbish bin and bounced off. It hit John just above his eyebrow. His right hand, the one that wasn't clutching his gun, shot up and tried to stop the bleeding, but his warm blood was already drooping down his face. It ran down his temple, some of it dripped in his eye and his vision blurred. Sherlock was unharmed, and heard his boyfriend grunt in pain. He didn't hesitate and ignored Moran a few seconds, while he studied John's face. The wound was deep, but not very big. It bled heavily, but it wasn't a serious injury. Sherlock sighed in relief and turned to Sebastian Moran again, who had ran out of bullets and had dropped his gun to the floor. The criminal didn't dare take a risk, and came to the only logical solution. He turned and ran.

John was already halfway the alley when Sherlock grabbed him by his arm and turned him around so that the doctor faced him. 'What are you doing?' John shouted, 'We're losing him!'

Sherlock shook his head and shrugged, 'Then so be it. Let him escape, it's not him we want, remember? We need to get to Moriarty.'

_Good. Very good._

Sherlock ignored the voice in his head and held John by his shoulders. 'Are you alright?' He asked, his voice trembling.

John nodded and wiped some more blood from his cheek. It didn't help much, the wound hadn't closed and a new stream came dripping down his face. Sherlock stared at the other man and didn't look away when he replaced John's hand with his own. John's face was warmer than Sherlock had ever felt it, but his blood was even warmer. Sherlock stroked John's cheek, he didn't mind the doctor's blood on his hands, he only wanted to touch him, feel his face, and be sure he was alright.

'We can still catch him,' John muttered, but Sherlock shook his head. 'No, we can't.'

'Yes we can!' John shouted. Sherlock let go of John's face and stepped backwards. 'Why are you so upset?' He asked with a hint of both confusion and anger in his voice.

'Because you just let him run off! You didn't even think about the consequences!'

'What consequences! I was only thinking of you. You got hurt.'

'It's just a bloody scratch, Sherlock!' John bellowed.

'I didn't know that did I? You could've lost an eye for all I knew.'

'And what would you have done then?' John asked. His face had turned red and he bit his lip to prevent himself from yelling any louder. 'The pain was done. Even if I had lost an eye, there would've been nothing you could do! Checking in on me was pointless, and now we've let him get away. Again.'

They stood there, eyeing each other for several minutes when finally, they heard sirens. Someone must have called the police, and now they had arrived.

* * *

Detective inspector Lestrade was relieved to see his friends safe and sound. He ordered Donovan to get a bandage for John, and watched the sergeant wrap it around his head only minutes later. John thought it wasn't necessary, but Lestrade insisted on him wearing it. At first John only did what Lestrade said to please him, but he found he felt better once the bleeding had stopped.

Greg Lestrade noticed that John and Sherlock were acting a bit odd and indifferent. He liked the idea of John and Sherlock together, for he knew they were made for each other, but he knew something was wrong and he didn't like it. He didn't know what to do or say, though, so he just pretended not to have noticed anything.

They were still standing in the small alley and were now surrounded by an entire team of police officers, who were mainly interviewing them about what happened. Both John and Sherlock were annoyed with them, especially after sergeant Donovan pointed out that they should've called the station for back-up. 'We don't need your help,' Sherlock snapped at her, 'We're capable of catching your criminals ourselves, thank you very much.'

'Yes, and I can see how well that worked out this time.'

* * *

Sherlock estimated it was around three o'clock in the afternoon when the duo finally got to go home. On their way back to 221B Baker Street, the two men were exceptionally quiet. Sherlock kept looking up to John's face, making sure he was alright. John looked out of the window of the cab, trying to ignore Sherlock, but eventually he couldn't keep himself in any longer and burst out; 'We could've caught him! We shouldn't have let him run off!'

'It didn't matter!' Sherlock sneered, 'Moran's of no importance. What mattered is that we didn't get killed.'

'Hasn't it crossed your mind that Moran has gone back to see Moriarty?' John said with raised eyebrows.

'So what if he has?' Sherlock asked briskly.

John sighed. 'Are you serious? I need to explain that to you? They're stronger together, Sherlock.'

Another silence fell. Sherlock, more than frustrated, ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

'How's your head?'

'It's fine.'

'John? Why were you so upset?'

'Shut up, Sherlock.'

'No, John, I don't understand. Moran's hardly a…'

'Shut up!'

* * *

They didn't talk the rest of the day, and tried to ignore each other as much as possible. John made himself some toast, while Sherlock made himself scarce. The detective had taken his violin with him into his room. John had the living room to himself. He sank down on the sofa and took off his shoes. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the city. Cars passing by, cabs honking and tourists chattering excitedly about the beauty of London. John thought of the parts of London the tourists didn't see, the small alleys in which criminals get shot by doctors and their boyfriends. John sighed at the thought of Sherlock as his boyfriend. He shouldn't have shouted at him, shouldn't have been so upset with him. He truly regretted his actions now, but he was too proud to barge into Sherlock's room and tell him that. Instead he started wondering why he had overreacted that much. Of course the army doctor wasn't pleased about the fact that they didn't catch Moran, but why did it bother him so much?

After what seemed like hours of pondering, John curled himself up on the sofa and it wasn't long before he fell asleep.

* * *

**Oh no! We're so sorry..  
Ah well, every good relationship has the occasional row. We're just being realistic here. Can you already think of a way they're going to make up? :3  
Anyway, we hoped you liked it and we can't beg you enough to review, so please; don't hesitate to review and tell us what you think of our story :) Thanks so much for reading! xx  
**


	11. Chapters 21 and 22

**21. An Unbreakable Connection**

_Soldiers with guns and knives are surrounding Sherlock and John. They threaten to kill Sherlock if he doesn't shoot the doctor. 'Kill him. Kill him. Kill him,' they mutter. Sherlock lifts his arm and points his gun at John. The two men in the circle look at each other, their eyes filled with hatred. Then the taller one of them whispers a soft; 'No. No I can't. I'd do anything.' Within seconds the soldiers attack him. There's blood on the pavement, and John doesn't even have to check to know that Sherlock's no longer breathing._

John gasped and sat up as fast as he could, but then he realised he'd been dreaming. The living room was so dark that he couldn't see a thing. John figured it must be in the middle of the night. He was about to close his eyes again when a voice startled him. 'What's wrong?' It took John a while to recognise Sherlock's low rumble. 'What the hell do you think you're doing?' John snapped at him, 'You nearly gave me a heart-attack!'

'Yes. Nearly.'

John peered into the darkness and could vaguely make out Sherlock's silhouette. The man was sitting in his chair, and by the outlines of the darkened figure, John could tell that he was holding his violin. 'How long have you been sitting there?' John asked.

'Not very long, about an hour.'

An hour? How had John not heard him come in or felt his stare? 'What are you doing here?' He asked for a second time.

'I'm thinking.'

'Go to your own room,' John grunted.

'This is my own room. My own living room. I have just as much right to be here as you do.'

John rolled his eyes, not that Sherlock could see him, and sighed before he muttered, 'Sherlock, really, I'm too tired to do this now.'

'Then don't.'

John closed his eyes again, because there was no point in keeping them open, since it was too dark to see anything anyway. He turned the detective his back as he curled back up on the couch. He just hoped Sherlock would keep his mouth shut so that he could go back to sleep. He was just drifting off when he felt Sherlock's warm breath in his neck. 'John,' he whispered, 'John, I'm sorry.'

John turned around to face Sherlock again. However, because of the darkness in the room, Sherlock couldn't see the expression on John's face. 'Don't apologise,' John muttered, 'I shouldn't have been so…' But he didn't get a chance to finish his sentence. Before the doctor realised what was going on, Sherlock's lips found his and John immediately forgot what he had been about to say. He pulled Sherlock onto the couch, stroking the man's cheekbones. During the movement their lips remained locked, and it was only when both men were completely out of breath, when Sherlock pulled away. 'John,' he whispered before leaning in again. His lips brushed John's before Sherlock lowered his head and leaned forward. Sherlock's breath felt warm against John's skin, and John eagerly awaited Sherlock's next kiss. He felt that the detective's mouth got closer to his neck, since his breath felt warmer every second. John held his head back a bit more, when finally Sherlock's lips touched his skin. John wanted them to stay there, but Sherlock pulled away again, leaving John lingering for more. Sherlock sat up, and was immediately followed by John, who held the detective's face in his hands, trying to pull him back down. But Sherlock didn't give in. The detective's long fingers ran through John's hair, down to his neck, down to his back where they held his warm jumper tightly. John moved closer and leaned forwards. Sherlock toppled over and John lay down on top of him. Sherlock chuckled a few seconds, but John immediately kissed him on the mouth. The detective's laughter was muffled against the other man's mouth.

Sherlock's hands were both still clutched to John's jumper, whereas John's hands still held Sherlock's face. One of John's hands remained there, his fingers tracing Sherlock's perfectly shaped lips. The other moved down, rubbing Sherlock's chest. John fiddled with the buttons on Sherlock's dark blue shirt, but the detective didn't notice. He let go of John's jumper with one hand and reached for his face. Blinded by the darkness that surrounded them, Sherlock's strong senses were less useful and John giggled as he realised that Sherlock had trouble finding his face. John realised that Sherlock Holmes was weaker in the dark, and the doctor liked it. He kissed the other man with more enthusiasm now he knew he had the upper hand. He pinned him down to the sofa, holding him firmly by the shoulders. Sherlock grunted but then sighed softly as John's hand slid down and started playing with his shirt again. Sherlock's lips parted a bit further, just to breathe in, when John kissed him on his jaw. Goosebumps spread over the detective's body and he moaned when he felt John's fingers rub his bare chest. The doctor had unbuttoned a few more buttons than he had done before, and this time it was definitely not by accident. He grinned when he felt Sherlock's muscles tense beneath him. He still had to get used to the detective responding to his every move.

John gasped in surprise when he felt Sherlock's hand on his thigh all of a sudden. He remembered the night before and immediately chuckled. 'You've really found my weak spot, haven't you?'

He heard Sherlock supress his laughter before the detective replied in a make-believe innocent voice, 'What _are_ you talking about?'

John grinned and brushed their lips together again. His hand still rested on Sherlock's chest and he enjoyed the feeling of the man's body going up and down swiftly, his breath quite unsteady. Sherlock pulled John closer, one hand still on the man's leg, the other running through his ash blond hair. Their bodies pressed so tightly together, it got hotter and John felt a bit of sweat run down his back. He considered taking his jumper off, but then eventually didn't, vaguely afraid of what Sherlock might think or say. He felt Sherlock's hand still on his thigh, stroking it softly. It sent a tickling feeling through his body and he giggled nervously.

'What?' Sherlock asked, but apparently he didn't want his answer right away, because he kissed John again, harder than before and left the doctor breathless for a few seconds. 'Nothing,' he panted and then smiled again as he felt Sherlock's hand make the same move again. Of course Sherlock knew exactly what had caused John to giggle, he was just teasing him by asking about it. 'Evil,' was all John could bring out, when Sherlock kissed him another time. John ran his fingers over Sherlock's chest, which made the taller man shiver in delight and grin broadly. John couldn't see his face in all the darkness, but felt Sherlock's muscles move again. It was what he loved best about these moments, Sherlock's body movements. They were so swift, yet always so tentatively and maybe even a bit anxious.

Sherlock stopped stroking John's hair, and moved his hand over to his neck, which he pinched softly. The hand on the doctor's thigh moved to its left, to the inside of John's leg. John grunted and bit his lip to prevent himself from making any louder noises. He accidently bit Sherlock's lip in the process as well and as Sherlock let out a short groan, both men giggled. It became a small game. Every time Sherlock moved his hand, John bit the detective's lip. In the meantime they continued their kissing. They lost themselves more in the moment than they had ever done before, and John knew nothing else in the world mattered except for the two of them. He set aside his doubts and took off his jumper. Sherlock smiled and his hand finally left John's weak spot and moved up to the army doctor's strong, muscular arms. John was leaning on one of them, which meant all its muscles were tensed. As soon as Sherlock touched it, though, John lost his last balance and fell down. He landed on top of Sherlock, but the detective hadn't seen him coming down and couldn't catch him. John fell on the floor and scribbled up as fast as he could. Sherlock got up from the sofa and walked towards John's outlined silhouette. He reached out for his shoulders but the doctor caught him by surprise when he stepped to his left. Sherlock didn't realise what had happened in time and fell over, into his own chair. 'Soft landing,' he muttered. John couldn't see his face, of course, but he could hear the grin on the taller man's face.  
He stumbled towards the chair, which was quite hard to find in all the darkness, but ran into Sherlock's outstretched arm, which pulled him down. Sherlock leaned against the back of the chair, while John sat partly on top of him, and partly next to him. The detective kissed John again, but he seemed to hesitate a little this time. However, as soon as their lips touched, John gave in completely, and Sherlock followed his example. John's hands rested on Sherlock's neck, and moved down to his shoulders. He wanted to feel the detective's body again, wanted to touch every inch of him. As his hands moved down to Sherlock's waist he took the other man's jacket off. Sherlock moved his lips back to John's neck, very slowly, making sure John felt his every breath. John sighed and shivered slightly. He ran his hands over Sherlock's chest again, unbuttoning the last three of his buttons. Sherlock laughed out loud and John chuckled quietly when he realised that he hadn't thought his last actions through at all. He flushed a bit, and was glad Sherlock couldn't see him. He wrapped both his arms around his boyfriend and hugged him tightly. 'I love you,' John muttered, 'And I'm sorry I was such an arse yesterday.' Sherlock just smiled and kissed him in the neck softly. Then, he moved his hand up to John's face and tilted the man's chin a bit to the right. He closed his eyes when he pressed his lips against the other man's. It was a kiss, decided John, that said more than any words could. However, Sherlock added a quiet; 'I love you too, John,' just to make sure the doctor understood.

John grinned in delight when he felt Sherlock's breath blow past his cheek, his voice forming the words that meant so much to him. Sherlock Holmes loved him.

Unable to keep the smile off his face, John turned his head and his lips found Sherlock's once more. His right hand curled around the detective's waist, and his left hand traced his collar bone. Sherlock shivered, his breath unsteady, as John bent over and pressed his lips to the hollow in between his two collar bones, just underneath his throat. He felt the vibration of Sherlock's moan through his lips and his right hand reached for the man's back, tracing the long, straight line of his spine. He loved playing with Sherlock's body like this, he felt special knowing he was the only person in the world able to cause these reactions.

And Sherlock was reacting. He felt John's breath in his neck, his soft, knowing hands touch and rub his body. Even his presence made him feel different, lighter, happier. He knew John had more experience with things like this, but he wanted to make John feel that way, too. Knowing John's weak spot now, he put both his hands on the insides of John's thighs, softly tracing the lines of the man's jeans. He had been unaware of his clenched fists until he had moved them and let out a deep breath, still feeling John's breathing in his neck. The soft, humming gusts of warm air quivered a little when he moved his hands upwards and he was sure he heard John draw in a deep breath, a high, squeaky undertone barely audible.

Without realising it, both men were playing a little game. They tried to make the other person succumb to their feelings first, using everything on hand.

Sherlock was rubbing John's legs softly, pressing his parted lips to the doctor's neck and muttering his name in his soft, low rumble.

John still had his hands on the detective's bare chest and back, rubbing them and causing goose bumps to form and spread all over Sherlock's body. Sometimes he leaned forward for a moment, brushing past Sherlock's lips on his neck and pressed his own lips to either the detective's neck or shoulder.

'John…' Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and croaky. John didn't reply but moved his hands upwards from the man's chest, to his shoulders. From there, he moved them down again, along the detective's strangely muscled arms. He was still wearing his unbuttoned shirt, and John removed it with his movement. Sherlock chuckled, amused by John's eagerness. He felt strangely nervous, too, because it was a relatively new experience to him. There was not much that was new to him these days, so it was something he'd have to get used to. He didn't mind getting used to it with John, though.

John picked up the shirt with his right hand, dropping it on the ground where Sherlock's jacket was, too. Sherlock, in the meanwhile, was still chuckling, one hand on John's thigh and the other on his cheek.

John's heart beat a little faster when he heard Sherlock's rumbling chuckle, his hands – and whole body, in fact – shaking along with it. John suddenly felt the urge to feel Sherlock, all of him at once. He moved his leg, lifting it over Sherlock's lap so both his legs were beside the taller man. John moved a little closer so that their chests nearly touched. John's hands ran down Sherlock's waist and stopped when they felt the soft fabric of his trousers.

Sherlock wasn't used to being the one with the lowest head and craned his neck to reach John's smiling lips. A soft moan escaped his partly open mouth as it took a while for John to respond. When he did, though, Sherlock grunted in satisfaction.

'Sherl – ' John gasped, unable to finish his whisper because the detective had pulled him closer by his neck and ran his long, careful fingers through his hair. Sherlock's eager lips kissed him like never before, soft moans, grunts and heavy breathing coming from it when they let go for a split second. John responded with as much enthusiasm, gripping the other man's dark curls with such force it almost hurt. Sherlock didn't mind, though – he loved the way John handled his body. It made him feel complete, even though he was a little rough sometimes. He liked John's roughness.

'John,' Sherlock muttered when the doctor paused for a moment, his lips hovering just an inch above his throat. 'Get up for a second…'

'Why?' John's lips curled into a smile as he pressed them to the tall man's warm throat.

'Because…' Sherlock groaned when he felt John's lips brush against his skin. He almost forgot what he was about to say. 'Because I'm… I feel a bit hot.'

John sniggered but got up nevertheless. He didn't stop touching Sherlock, though. 'What were you going to do about it?' John asked, reluctantly considering the detective might want to start thinking about the case instead.

'Drink something,' Sherlock replied, glancing at the chair, which seemed to be drenched in sweat. One of the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. 'I just wanted to apologise again for yesterday. I acted like an idiot.'

'You are an idiot,' John said, his fingers gently touching the bandage around his eye. He winced as a sharp pain short through his head.

Sherlock noticed, even in the dark room, and a worried look crossed his face. He took a few steps towards the shorter man, cupping his hands around his cheeks. 'Are you all right?' he asked, his eyebrows furrowed. 'It doesn't look that bad, but you never know… Why can't I get hurt sometime?' he muttered, frustrated.

'Do you have any idea what you're saying?' John asked incredulously. 'I'm fine. I've been through worse.' He glanced at his left shoulder, where the scar of a gunshot wound was still visible. Sherlock followed his gaze and realised he had never seen John's scar before – he had never seen John's bare upper body before. His eyes no longer focused on the old wound but scanned the doctor's body, and Sherlock appreciated what he observed.

'You…' Sherlock muttered, his lips already close to John's ear, 'are not helping me cool down…'

'I don't mean to.'

Sherlock grinned delightedly and pressed his cheek to John's, his teeth touching the doctor's ear as his smile broadened. 'John… I love you so much.'

John closed his eyes, leaning back on Sherlock's desk. He felt waves of satisfaction flow over him, enjoying and savouring every single one of them.

'I love you, Sherlock, more than I will ever be able to say.'

Sherlock laughed for a brief moment before pushing John against his desk, his lips locked to John's. John lost his balance and fell back on the desk, knocking a few objects on there over, but he didn't care. He lay on his back on the desk, clinging on the Sherlock with all his might. Sherlock had fallen with him, their lips not breaking contact. He leaned forward heavily, lying on top of John. He panted heavily, not because he was tired, but because he was excited, because there was a man underneath him, his strong arms around his back, pulling him tight against him. Sherlock's lips parted when he gasped – John had moved his hands over his back towards his hips and thighs and he had lowered his head to Sherlock's neck, his mouth hungry for the taste of Sherlock's skin.

'Found your weak spot,' John teased when he felt every muscle in the detective's body tense at his movement. He gripped the detective's leg a little tighter, tracing his spine with one finger of his other hand. He rested his hand on the small of Sherlock's back, chuckling when Sherlock couldn't suppress a series of moans and grunts.

'It's my turn,' Sherlock said through clenched teeth. 'You evil little…' He didn't finish his sentence, but he didn't need to. Sherlock lifted himself up a bit more, so he could reach John's mouth. He started kissing him, tentatively in the beginning, and John wondered whether he did that just to leave him craving for more. He clenched his fists to stop himself from getting too excited and decided to wait and let Sherlock do whatever he wished.

Sherlock knew what reaction he got from John and decided to take it slow to tease him. He traced the lines of his body with his fingertips, barely touching but causing a heavy reaction nevertheless.

After a while, he couldn't keep it in anymore and smiled before opening his mouth, gently biting John's lower lip with his teeth. He stayed like that for a while, a broad smile forming when he heard a muffled grunt coming from deep inside John's chest. 'You animal,' Sherlock scolded, faking annoyance. He fell backwards when John suddenly sat up, but didn't fall to the floor because John's arms were tightly wrapped around him, keeping him where he was.

Someone had knocked on the door, announcing his or her presence. Sherlock figured it must be Mrs Hudson, who still hadn't been able to talk to them about the rent.

John grinned and handed Sherlock his shirt, reaching for his own jumper afterwards. 'They're learning, aren't they?' he said, nodding towards the door. 'Let me help you with that…'

John moved over to where Sherlock stood, fiddling with his buttons. His hands were still shaking from the recent action and he was having trouble focusing on closing his shirt. John softly brushed his hands against Sherlock's chest, and closed the top buttons, leaving the last one open, just as they both liked.

'Come in,' John called when his hand slid down Sherlock's chest, leaving Sherlock gasping for air.

Mrs Hudson's head appeared first, a bit unsure. When she saw they weren't doing anything inappropriate, she smiled and walked in.

'I wanted to talk about the rent, now that you're both home.'

* * *

When Mrs Hudson left, Sherlock looked at John with both an apologetic and yearning expression on his face. They both wanted the kissing to last forever, but they knew that it couldn't – and besides, their flat and Sherlock's bedroom didn't run away.

Sherlock walked up to John, putting his arms around him and breathing in his neck. 'Doctor John Hamish Watson,' he whispered, 'I love you.'

John smiled as a warm blush appeared on his face. 'Sherlock Holmes – I love you, too.'

The detective smiled to himself when he heard that, realising he had never expected John to say those words only two or three weeks ago. And yet here they were, muttering sweet words to each other, holding each other and kissing each other as if they'd never done anything different.

Sherlock's hand found John's chin and he tilted it up a bit, making sure he would be able to reach it without difficulty. He bent down and softly brushed his lips to John's, closing his eyes.

It was a light, sweet kiss, but it had such feeling it caused blood to rush to their faces and their hearts to thump faster. Sherlock let go eventually, but he kept staring at John with his brilliantly greenish eyes.

'Let's go and investigate… This case needs to be solved quickly.' John stared back into those beautiful eyes, drifting off into their depth and warmth.

'Quite right,' Sherlock replied softly, a smile playing around his lips. He bent down once more, pressed his lips to John's for a moment, then his forehead. 'I'll never leave you. Whatever happens, no matter how much we'll argue or fight – I'll stay with you. Until the end.'

**22. The Blogger and the Genius**

_Why not give them a clue? Just a teensy one…  
Moriarty had given them a clue.  
You know what? I've already given you one!  
A clue to solve the case. A clue to get to him. A clue to decipher – to find out his whereabouts.  
I've already given you one…  
What does that mean? Has he said something, shown us something? When?_

_The pool. The rooftop. The cab ride. Even 221B… All the moments I have met Moriarty. What did he say?_

_I owe you a fall, Sherlock… I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse, of what I've got going on out there in the big, bad world… That wasn't the end of Sir Boastalot's problems. No. That wasn't the final problem… I want to solve the problem. Our problem. The final problem… Those digits are meaningless… They're utterly meaningless… That's your weakness, you always want things to be clever… DAYLIGHT ROBBERY! All it takes is a few willing participants… If you don't stop prying, I will burn you. I will burn the _heart _out of you… Sorry, boys! I'm so changeable. It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself – it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but… everything I have to say has already crossed your mind… Aren't ordinary people adorable…? I should get myself a live-in one…_

Ciao, Sherlock Holmes…

Sherlock's eyes flew open. His forehead was sweaty and his heart beat fast. He was sitting in his chair, his violin in his hands. This was the first time he had deliberately set his mind open for Moriarty to get in. It was as if he had invited him in, have a cup of tea.  
_  
May I…?_

Sherlock frowned and shook his head. It was okay. He needed every memory he had of Moriarty. He was not there in real life, he was only in his head. And that's where he needed to be in order for them to figure out this case. Moriarty knew it, though – he knew Sherlock was having trouble with it.  
_  
But I have John…  
_  
'Think!' he shouted, dropping his violin as his hands shot up to his temples. John, who had been watching him from the other chair, flinched but didn't get up. Sherlock had told him to stay where he was, watch him in case something went wrong.

Sherlock was concentrating very hard on Moriarty's exact words, body language and everything he had touched.  
_  
It's going to start very soon, Sherlock. The fall… Falling is just like flying – except there's a more permanent destination… Your only three friends in the world will die if you don't… Glad you chose a tall building, nice place to do it… All my life, I've been searching for distractions, and you were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you…_

Moriarty. Riot Army. Richard Brook. Reichenbach.  
Jim from the IT. James Moriarty.  
Moriarty the spider.

A consulting criminal… Brilliant.  
Isn't it? No one ever gets to me… And no one ever will.  
I did.  
You've come the closest. Now you're in my way.

John watched his boyfriend carefully. He flinched at every sudden movement the detective made, frowning helplessly every time a look of agony crossed Sherlock's face. He wanted to be a comfort, but he knew that Sherlock wanted to remember, or, according to John, relive all his experiences with the consulting criminal. It was essential for the case.

_Play this game all you like, Moriarty, you will never win. I will stop you…  
No, you won't.  
Go away.  
I gave you my number… Thought you might call…  
__I said, go away!  
I say this as a friendly warning… Back off.  
_  
'GO AWAY!'

Sherlock's eyes were shut, he was frowning, jaw clenched. His hands grasped his chair firmly, his chest went up and down rapidly with every breath.

John took this as a sign it was going wrong and jumped up immediately, crossing the short distance between them in seconds. He knelt down beside his boyfriend, stored his violin safely away and took his head in his hands. He began whispering comforting words in the detective's ear and rubbed his cheek with his thumb, holding Sherlock's right hand in his other hand.  
_  
Although, I have loved this. This little game of ours…  
_  
'No…' Sherlock moaned. 'John…'

'I'm here, Sherlock. Don't worry.' John was extremely nervous but didn't show it; he wanted to be a comfort to Sherlock, and the only way to do that was by being the stronger person.

'I need to think…'

'Then go and think. I won't move anymore, I'll stay here. I'm here if you need me.'

Sherlock felt better having John around and drifted off into his own thoughts again, a bit hesitantly. He did not really want to, but he knew it was necessary for the case and his endless dance with Moriarty.

It all came rushing back twice as hard as before, but Sherlock gritted his teeth as fought through it all.  
_  
He was on the rooftop. The pavement was more than fifty feet below. A red bus was parked, next to a rubbish truck. Only a few people were below, walking blindly, not knowing what was happening a few feet above their heads._

_'Would you give me a moment, please?' he asked. 'One moment of privacy? Please?' He looked down at the man standing beside him._

_'Of course,' James Moriarty replied, a sneer on his face. Satisfied, he walked the other way, turning his back to the tall man about to jump._

_Sherlock closed his eyes, thinking of John. He had disappointed him. He would never be able to tell him he was sorry… His eyes flew open as he realised something. He frowned and grinned when an idea popped into his head._

_'What? What is it? What did I miss?' Moriarty screamed when he heard the detective's mocking laughter._

_Sherlock turned around, skipped off the ledge and walked up to the consulting criminal, who was staring at him with menacing eyes._

_'You're not going to do it,' he said. 'So the killers can be called off, then, there's a recall code, or a word, or a number…' He walked around Moriarty, who was staring ahead with wide eyes. 'I don't have to die… If I've got you…'_

_'Oh,' Moriarty laughed. 'You think you can make me stop the order, you think you can make me do that?'_

_'Yes,' Sherlock whispered, still walking around the criminal. 'So do you.'_

_'Sherlock, your big brother and all the king's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to.'_

_'Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember?' Sherlock said, facing Moriarty. 'I am you… Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn… prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in Hell, I shall not disappoint you…'_

_Moriarty looked at him in disbelief and shook his head. 'Nah… you talk big… nah... You're ordinary. You're ordinary, you're on the side of the angels…'_

_'Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second,' Sherlock sneered the last word, 'that I am one of them.'_

_There was a short silence between the two men, and neither broke eye contact. Eventually, Moriarty blinked and shook his head again._

_'No… you're not.' He smiled. 'I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me…' he laughed, looked at Sherlock with his eyes wide open, smiling in that insane way. 'You're me!'_

_Sherlock looked at him as he spoke, his heart beating in his chest, but acting indifferent._

_'Thank you… Sherlock Holmes…' he stretched out his hand. Sherlock took it. 'Thank you. Bless you,' he whispered, looking him in the eye once again. 'As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out. Well, good luck with that.' He smiled, opened his mouth and raised his left hand. Sherlock looked at him in confusion but let go of Moriarty's ice cold hand as he saw the reflection of the sun in an iron gun. Before he had any time to stop the criminal, he shot himself and fell on his back after the loud bang._

_Sherlock gasped for breath, groaned when he put his hands on the back of his head. He looked around, his arm in front of his mouth. Moriarty's last grin was still on his face, a stream of blood coming from the back of his head._  
_He had no choice. Sherlock turned around and looked down at the pavement once more. Still panting, he put his right foot on the ledge. Suddenly, the distance seemed far greater._

_A black cab pulled over on the street below. Sherlock got his phone out of his pocket and dialled John's number. Just as the door opened, John got out of the cab, his mobile phone in his hand._

_'Hello?'_

His memory faded and Sherlock waited for the blurred colours to form another image. This time, of a grinning Moriarty sitting opposite him, a tea cup in his hand.  
_  
'Every fairy tale needs a gold old-fashioned villain.' He grinned at the tall man, still standing, a frown on his face. 'You need me. Or you're nothing. Because we're just alike, you and I. Except you're boring. You're on the side of the angels…' He shook his head and sipped his tea._

_'You got to the jury, of course.' Sherlock picked up his own cup and faced Moriarty again, stirring his tea with his little tea spoon._

_'I got into the Tower of London, you think I can't worm my way into twelve hotel rooms?'_

_'Cable network,' Sherlock muttered, unbuttoning his jacket. Obvious._

_'Every hotel room has a personalised TV screen. And every person has their pressure point, someone that they want to protect from harm. Easy peasy,' he whispered, his lips hovering round the edge of his cup._

_'So how are you going to do it?' Sherlock asked, also sitting down, now. He blew his tea. 'Burn me?'_

_'Oh, that's the problem. The final problem. Have you worked out what it is, yet?'_

_Sherlock looked at him with reluctant confusion, his lips lingering around the edge of his cup. 'What's the final problem? I did tell you. But did you listen…?'_

_Moriarty put his cup back in its saucer and moved his left hand to his knee, tapping a complex rhythm. Sherlock's attention was drawn to it._

_'How hard do you find it, having to say "I don't know"?' Moriarty continued, a mocking expression on his face._

_'I don't know,' Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes and putting his cup and saucer back on the table._

_'Oh, that's clever, that's very clever, awfully clever…'_

_Sherlock looked away, now officially irritated by the consulting criminal who was his intellectual equal._

_'Speaking of clever, have you told your little friends yet?'_

_'Told them what?' Sherlock asked, bringing his hands together in front of his face, fingertips touched._

_'Why I broke into all those places and never took anything.'_

_'No,' Sherlock whispered._

_'But you understand.'_

_'Obviously.'_

_'Off you go, then,' Moriarty said, raising his eyebrows and bringing a piece of apple to his mouth with his knife._

_'You want me to tell you what you already know?'_

_'No, I want you to prove that you know it,' Moriarty contradicted._

_'You didn't take anything because you don't need to.'_

_'Good…'_

_'You'll never need to take anything ever again.'_

_'Very good, because…'_

_'Because nothing,' Sherlock said in a raised voice, 'nothing in the Bank of England, the Tower of London or Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get you into all three.'_

_'I can open any door anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code… No such thing as a private bank account now. They're all mine, no such thing as secrecy, I own secrecy. Nuclear codes, I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king and honey, you should see me in a crown…'_

_As Moriarty spoke, Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He was enjoying this, far too much._

_'You were advertising all the way through the trial, you were showing the world what you can do…'_

_'And you were helping. Big client list.' Sherlock's grin faded. 'Rogue governments, intelligence communities. Terror cells.' Moriarty shook his head in amusement. 'They all want me. Suddenly, I'm Mr Sex.'_

_'You can break any bank. What do you care about the highest bidder?'_

_'I don't, I just like to watch them all competing. "Daddy loves me the best!" Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know. You've got John… I should get myself a live-in one…' he mused._

_'Why are you doing all of this?' Sherlock whispered._

_'It must be so funny…' Moriarty continued._

_'You don't want money or power, not really. What is it all for?'_

_Moriarty stuck his knife in the apple, a cracking sound easily audible through the tense silence._

_'I want to solve the problem. Our problem. The final problem.'_

With a gasp, Sherlock's eyes flew open for the third time that hour. 'John.'

'What happened, Sherlock? You went rigid,' John said, a worried undertone in his voice.

'I… I was back.'

'Back where?' John shook Sherlock's shoulders, clearly concerned about him.

'With him, John.'

'Who, Moriarty?'

Sherlock nodded. 'Every memory I have of him… I was reliving some of them. I know exactly how it went. I haven't forgotten a thing. And he knows it. He planted it on me.'

'Planted what on you?' John was losing track of their conversation.

'The clue, John! He knew I would memorise our every meeting. That will tell us where we have to go, it will tell us where the headquarters were fifteen years ago.'

'And how on earth are you supposed to decipher all that? You're going to analyse every word he said?'

'I don't need to. He will do it for me.'

* * *

Sherlock was meditating for the rest of the day. He just sat on his chair, occasionally picking up his violin, staring into space – when his eyes were open.

By the end of the day, the detective hadn't moved and John was getting tired of watching him. He didn't want to leave him alone, though, so he made a sandwich for dinner – the fridge was once again empty – and set up his laptop. It had been a while since his last blog and he had loads to write down.

It took him a while to remember where he had stopped the last time, but when he did he started typing determinedly.

_Sherlock and I have been running around London once again. Moriarty is really playing a game with us this time – he has set up a criminal organisation called Riot Army (an anagram for Moriarty). It consists of dozens of murderers who carve smileys into their victim's stomachs after they've been killed._

_We got two of them this week. As always, Sherlock took one look around and told us everything there was needed to know._

_It is probably the hardest case we have ever had so far, because the clue to these murders is finding Moriarty and Moriarty doesn't just let himself be caught. _

_We have been visiting an ex member of Riot Army in prison a few times, and he gave us an address. That turned out to be the headquarters of fifteen years ago._

_We went in, our guns ready. Eventually, we came in this big ballroom, rows of chairs facing a stage, in front of which a TV was placed._

_Sherlock walked up to it, finding it suspicious. Fifteen years ago, there were no TV's like that._

_It turned out to be a video left behind by Moriarty. He told us he would give us a clue to his whereabouts – and then he changed his mind. Or did he? "I've already given you one", he said. Sherlock went mad again, just at the worst timing ever. Sebastian Moran came in, carrying a rifle. He threatened to shoot us and with a disabled Sherlock hanging on my arm, I wouldn't be able to stop him. I tried to get Sherlock focused, and I managed to do that eventually. Sherlock shot the lighting on the ceiling and it came down, almost crushing us to death._

_Moran was distracted, though, and we ran for the emergency door behind the stage. It took a while before Moran came chasing after us, and Sherlock climbed the higher roof using the rain pipes. I followed behind, quickly._

_Sherlock used his uncanny knowledge of the London streets to get us out of the way, but it wasn't of much use. Two men joined Moran and fired at us._

_Sherlock pulled me over, eventually and stopped where we were standing. He told me to point my gun at the bloke on the left, but not shoot him. He would talk us out of this. He was playing with Moran's feelings to get them distracted._

_We both shot at the same time, but Moran fled when he ran out of bullets. I tried to go after him, but a shard of glass hit me just above the eyebrow, and Sherlock, apparently, was too worried about me to go after him – we lost him, and we won't find him that easily, again._

_Everything's fine with my eye, but Sherlock didn't stop being concerned. It bothered me at first, because I was angry at him for letting Moran go like that – we could've got him. Later, though, I realised he would never be so concerned for anybody else and that he genuinely cares about me. It still surprises me, sometimes, that Sherlock Holmes is capable of feeling love like that. I don't care, though, for I love him back just as much._

_Moriarty, though – he said he'd already given us a clue. Sherlock realised that he must have said something, or left something behind when they met a couple of months ago. He's been thinking about it all day, stuck in his own mind. I can't help but worry about him when he does that, he just stares into space or tightly shuts his eyes. Sometimes, when it's particularly bad, he jerks and flinches, and I have to ignore my instinct to go and help because he doesn't want me to – unless he asks for it himself._

_That's all on the case for now – I had to distract myself from Sherlock's briskness. I will update this blog whenever we find any more leads. It might take a long time. Moriarty plays his game well._

John shut his laptop, just at the moment Sherlock opened his eyes again. The detective took his time to focus, but when he saw John his expression softened. He smiled and sighed, leaning back in his chair.  
_  
The clue's in the name…_

Why would you be giving me a clue?

_Why does anyone do anything?_

'I've figured it out.'

* * *

**Any idea what the clue might be? The answer will be in the next chapter of course, we'll upload it in a few days.  
Anyway, it would help us a lot if you could review and tell us what you think, if there is anything to improve... It keeps us going! Thanks for reading, everyone! **


	12. Chapters 23 and 24

**This is actually the first time that we have to add a warning... Hehe. No, not really, but it's just that we've noticed that there's a lot of Johnlock kissing and touching in these two chapters, and I'm afraid that that's going to last a while. (To the end of the story, that is. Ahem.) So if you think this is too much, we're very sorry...  
**  
**Enjoy!**

* * *

**23. Past and Present**

'It's absolutely brilliant. That man is insane, but brilliant. He's been giving me clues all along.'

_Oh, you're just getting that now?_

'The clue's in the name… Janus Cars, remember? What if it's the same, this time?'

'What name, Moriarty?'

'Or Moran, we don't know yet. Maybe he's made an anagram again, an anagram which will lead us to their hideout. We must figure it out, it might lead us to the next clue, which is also stored inside my head.'

'Like the computer key code was, you mean?'

'Yes, yes, exactly!' Sherlock exclaimed. 'It's another way for him to refer to previous cases. We've got to figure out what clue is in their names…'

'How do you know this is the clue?'

'It's obvious. His choice of words, exactly the same. He knew I would doubt the fact he'd give us a clue, just like last time. Get a pen and paper.'

'Sherlock…' John sighed. He felt a wave of fatigue flow over him as he said this. He had been staring at Sherlock all day, making sure nothing happened to him inside his head. Not a lot had happened, but John realised doing nothing was tiring.

'What?' Sherlock asked, already on his feet.

'I'm so tired. Can we do this tomorrow?'

Sherlock frowned and thought about it, considering the possibility. They could work on it later, it was already past midnight. What were they going to do about it even if they figured it out?

Sherlock nodded, smiling to himself. 'Of course. I was a fool; let's go to bed.'

John followed his boyfriend to his bedroom and realised he had really missed sleeping beside him, even after spending only one night apart. John thought it had been a silly argument – he should have known they were going to catch either Moran or Moriarty soon enough. Sherlock wouldn't be so stupid.

John remembered their heated discussion earlier and after that, another heated action… he blushed when he looked at Sherlock's body from behind, noticing the way his muscles moved beneath his skin, enabling Sherlock's elegant movements.

When Sherlock opened the door to his bedroom, John saw his shoulder muscles tighten and relax. When Sherlock walked he saw the muscles in his back move with every step he took. When Sherlock stretched or bent over, John couldn't help but notice his body and reacting to it.

'No, Sherlock, let me do that…' he whispered shyly when Sherlock started to unbutton his shirt. Sherlock chuckled but let his arms drop beside him, placing his hands on John's waist. He felt John's trembling fingers undo his top button and lowered his head.  
John felt Sherlock's warm breath before he felt his soft lips pressed against his jaw. He unbuttoned another button when Sherlock's lips brushed sideways, towards his ear. His fingers trembled when he felt Sherlock's breath in the hollow behind his ear and jaw and the detective's teeth when he smiled. Another button was opened when Sherlock gently bit his earlobe, smiling when he felt John's warm hands against his chest.

Sherlock moved his head to the left, his nose brushing against John's cheek. He kissed that exact spot when he felt his shirt open up a bit more. Every time John now unbuttoned a part of his shirt, Sherlock kissed him somewhere on his face, his cheek, temple, forehead, the corner of his mouth. Sherlock knew how many buttons his shirt had and saved the best kiss for last.

John felt Sherlock's lips brush against his skin, towards his mouth and his hands shot up to Sherlock's bare chest, feeling the heartbeat of the tall man fasten. His own heartbeat did the same and he immediately felt hot. He realised he was wearing a button-down shirt himself, a jumper pulled over it.

Before he felt Sherlock's lips touch his and he knew he wouldn't be able to stop him then, John pulled back a little and pulled off his warm jumper, throwing it over his head. He put one arm around Sherlock's back, loving the outline of his spine, while the other hand curled around the detective's neck, which progressed so beautifully into his magnificently muscled shoulder.

Sherlock was acutely aware of John's fingertips brushing his skin lightly and decided now was the best time for a kiss.

He brought his hands together at John's chin, tilting it upwards before running a hand through his hair and leaning forward, his lips parted as he pressed them to John's. John still felt hot and reluctantly lifted his hands from Sherlock's body, about to unbutton his own shirt, but Sherlock blocked his way. He didn't want John to stop touching him.

Sherlock moved his own hands down and it was his turn to unbutton John's shirt now. He was a lot quicker than John had been, but neither of them cared. Sherlock's lips were still locked to John's when Sherlock stepped forward, catching John off guard. John stumbled backwards, but he knew he would have a soft landing – the bed. He giggled when Sherlock thudded on top of him, their bare chests touching.

'Quiet,' Sherlock muttered, although he loved the little sounds John always made, whether it was a moan, a grunt or a nervous giggle. He especially loved those, it made him feel… special. There was no other word for it.

'I'll try to,' John replied between two kisses. 'But with you around, I can't guarantee…'

'Oh, shut up, John…' John's name came out like a hoarse whisper, an eager, craving whisper; John had just pulled himself on the bed entirely, lifting Sherlock with him, using his strong army trained arms. He rested his head back on the pillow, inviting Sherlock's lips to his neck.

'Sherlock…' John moaned quietly when he felt the detective's lips brush his skin, his warm breath in between the tentative kisses blow past his bare chest.

John's hands were on the small of Sherlock's back, softly rubbing it. When Sherlock's lips moved downwards, softly brushing the skin, John moved his own hands down Sherlock's back, too, not stopping when they reached the man's trousers. John felt a sudden gust of warm breath in his neck when his hands brushed over the detective's buttocks to his inner thighs and swore he heard something like 'oh, Lord' coming from Sherlock's mouth, a moaning undertone clearly audible.

John laughed out loud, having found Sherlock's weak spot. 'Didn't you tell _me _to shut up?' he whispered, looking in Sherlock's beautiful green eyes. He could see that Sherlock's cheeks were pink, even in the twilight. 'You are blushing,' he added, smiling broadly.

'I am not,' Sherlock contradicted, having pulled himself together and grinning, obviously very pleased with himself – and John.  
'You are,' John whispered. 'Just…' he pressed his lips to Sherlock's neck. 'Admit it…' He kissed Sherlock's jaw. 'Admit I'm the only one… who can make you feel this way.'

John had reached the corner of Sherlock's perfectly shaped mouth, but didn't kiss him there until he got an answer.

'John. Don't be ridiculous,' Sherlock whispered, eagerly awaiting John's soft kiss. When it didn't come, though, he opened his eyes and looked down at John, who was still waiting for an answer. 'You are. Need you ask?'

'With you, you never know,' John replied, tracing the lines of Sherlock's mouth with his index finger.

'I thought it was pretty obvious.'

'Everything is obvious to you.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Sherlock repeated. He decided not to wait any longer for John's kiss and lowered his head, grunting as his lips touched John's. His hands ran all over John's body. John arched his back slightly when he felt Sherlock's hands brush over his skin towards his thighs and he knew what the detective was about to do. A lingering moan escaped his lips as Sherlock rubbed his thigh, pressing his lips to his shoulder, neck and chest in the same rhythm.

Sherlock sat up suddenly, leaving John breathlessly on the bed, craving for more. 'Sherlock…' John moaned, gasping for air.  
'Sherlock…'

'Just taking my shoes off,' Sherlock replied, his voice soft and high. 'I love you.'

'Oh, Sherlock… I love you, too. Now get back over here, you…'

Sherlock chuckled as he lay back on top of John, continuing where he left off. It pleased him to know that John wanted him and that he was doing the right thing; he was only doing what his heart told him to do, and listening to his heart instead of his head was new to him.

'Don't you need to take your shoes off?' Sherlock asked, his lips barely touching the skin of John's neck as he raised his head to look into John's blue eyes.

'Already taken care of,' John whispered, taking the opportunity to nibble Sherlock's soft lower lip. Sherlock responded by moving his hand towards the left, rubbing John's inner thigh. His hand moved upward, slowly, and just as waves of goose bumps and pleasure spread all over John's body, he moved his hand down again, almost to the man's knee before turning the other way again. He continued this for a while, knowing exactly what kind of movement to make and at what pace.

For once, John didn't mind not having the upper hand, he just lay back and enjoyed the feelings Sherlock caused, focusing on Sherlock's soft hand, his long, tentative but knowing fingers going up and down his leg.

'Sherl…' he swallowed. 'Sherlock…' His voice had a high, croaky undertone and Sherlock blushed again when he realised what he was actually doing. But he didn't stop, for he enjoyed the way John reacted.

John didn't bother hiding his shivers and moans, and pulled Sherlock tighter on top of him, pressing his hands to his back as Sherlock continued to rub his thighs. Despite the warmth, John felt the urge to pull Sherlock's sheets over their bodies and did so, causing Sherlock to chuckle. John laughed back, enjoying the feel of Sherlock's chest rumbling with laughter.

'Oh, John…' Sherlock muttered, amused. He smiled, his lips still touching John's. John felt Sherlock's muscles move beneath his hands, which were on Sherlock's cheeks now, softly stroking his cheekbones. A smiling Sherlock made him feel so happy inside, he couldn't help but smile back. Suddenly, he felt his throat thicken as a wave of emotion rolled over him. He swallowed and gasped for air.

Sherlock felt John's chest move while he struggled to draw in breaths, frowned in concern, and slid down John's side, lying next to him. 'Are you all right?'

'Yes, of course I'm all right. Why?'

'It seemed as though you were… I just thought, maybe I'm a bit too heavy for you…?' Sherlock whispered a bit hesitantly. He crept closer to his boyfriend again, pulling the sheets up again.

John laughed. 'You, too heavy for me? Oh, Sherlock…' He shook his head, placing his hands on Sherlock's cheeks again, tracing his cheekbones with one finger. He pulled Sherlock closer by his neck, running a hand through his soft curls.

'Hmmm,' Sherlock sighed when he felt John's lips touch his. 'Get some sleep. I think it will be a long day, tomorrow.'

John sighed and closed his eyes reluctantly, still stroking the detective's cheekbones. 'And you promise you won't be gone when I wake up?' he mumbled. He did not really want to admit it, but one night without Sherlock was already one too many.

'I promise.'

Satisfied, John crept close to his boyfriend, resting his head on Sherlock's chest. He fell asleep instantly to the steady rhythm of Sherlock's heartbeat, the detective stroking his hair as he closed his eyes as well.

* * *

_John got out of the cab, just as his mobile phone rung. He answered it immediately._

_'Hello?' he said when he ran to the entrance of the hospital._

_'John.' It was Sherlock._

_'Hey, Sherlock, are you okay?' he asked. He had been concerned about him, he would not lie about Mrs Hudson like that – if it was him._

_'Turn around, and walk back the way you came.'_

_'No, I'm coming in.' John ran as fast as he could – Sherlock's voice sounded… anxious._

_'Just do as I ask! Please…' John stopped in his tracks, looking around._

_'Where?' he finally asked. He walked back a few steps._

_'Stop there,' came the answer. John stopped._

_'Sherlock?' He wasn't getting this. Something was wrong._

_'Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop.'_

_John turned around, hardly believing what he had heard – and what he was seeing. There stood Sherlock Holmes, his coat blowing_  
_behind him, a mobile phone in his hand._

_'Oh, God…' John muttered. What was happening?_

_'I… I… I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this.' Sherlock's voice quavered._

_'What's going on?'_

_'An apology.' Sherlock took a deep breath. 'It's all true.'_

_'What?' John just stood there, staring at his friend in disbelief._

_'Everything they said about me. I… invented Moriarty…'_

_'Why are you saying this?' John asked. It couldn't be true, it wasn't happening._

_'I'm a fake.' John could tell from the sound of Sherlock's voice that the man was crying._

_'Sherlock – ' he contradicted. It must be some kind of sick joke._

_'The newspapers were right all along,' Sherlock continued. 'I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs Hudson… And Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you… that I created Moriarty… for my own purposes…'_

_John shook his head. No._

_'Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?'_

_'Nobody could be that clever.'_

_'You could.'_

_John heard Sherlock laugh, a short laugh that was neither happy nor mocking. It was… sad._

_'I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick, it's just a magic trick.'_

_'No, all right – stop it now.' John started to walk forward. He couldn't handle it._

_'No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move.'_

_'All right,' John said, stretching out his arm. High up on the rooftop, Sherlock did the same._

_'Keep your eyes fixed on me.' Sherlock's voice had gone high and panicky. 'Please, will you do this for me?'_

_'Do what?'_

_'This phone call, it's ah… it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?'_

_'Leave a note when?' John asked. He was panicking. Surely, Sherlock wasn't –?_

_'Goodbye, John.'_

_'No. Don't – ' He stepped back, watching Sherlock, who was staring back, a frown on his face. He could even see his distress from the distance._

_Sherlock threw away his phone._

_'SHERLOCK!' John screamed._

_But Sherlock had already spread his arms and fallen down the building._

_'Sherlock – ' John whispered. This couldn't be true. He ran forward, stopped when he saw a body lying on the pavement behind a rubbish truck. The pavement was full of blood –_

_Something hit him from behind. John fell on the floor. His mind was on Sherlock, he couldn't think of anything else. Ignoring his own pain, he stood up again, stumbling towards the pavement._

_'Sherlock… Sherlock,' he muttered._

_People had already gathered around the limp body on the floor. John couldn't believe it was Sherlock's until he had seen it with his own eyes._

_'I'm a doctor. Let me come through, please. No, he's my friend, he's my friend! Please…' He was trying to get through, but people were holding him back. He reached out towards Sherlock, getting hold of his wrist. People were still holding on to him and pulled him back once again._

_Paramedics arrived._

_'Please, let me just…' John had trouble forming the words. Tears were streaming down his face when he saw Sherlock's bright green eyes stare blindly, not seeing, when someone turned him over. His once beautiful, soft, dark curls were drenched with blood._  
_'Jesus, no… God, no…' he muttered. He couldn't stop staring at Sherlock's pale face as the paramedics got him on the stretcher. 'Oh, God…'_

_People helped him get up as Sherlock was taken away by the paramedics. When he was able to stand, they left him alone._  
_He was alone._

* * *

'John?'

'No… Sherlock… Don't…' John took a deep breath, his eyes wet. Uncontrollable sobs shot through his body as the memory of Sherlock's death kept repeating itself.

'John.'

Tears formed and immediately streamed down his cheeks, instantly replaced with new ones. 'Oh, God…'

'John!'

John opened his eyes, looking into Sherlock's, which were just an inch separated from his. He drew in a heavy breath as he recognised those eyes, realising he had seen them just moments before – staring lifelessly ahead.

'John,' Sherlock said a fourth time. He put his hands on John's cheeks, forcing him to look him in the eye.

'Sherlock…' John muttered. 'Oh, Jesus…'

'What happened?' Sherlock's low voice rumbled in that familiar way, even when there was a panicky undertone.

'I had a dream…'

'A nasty dream?' Sherlock asked, looking at John with a concerned expression on his face. John had been thrashing in his sleep – Sherlock had already woken a few hours before.

John nodded. 'You… you jumped.'

Sherlock was silent for a while. He looked at John, a guilty look on his face. It was his fault; he had done this to John. He had traumatised him for the rest of his life and he wouldn't be able to take it back. 'I am… so… sorry, John.'

'What – no, it's not your fault. You told me I'd be dead if you didn't…'

'But I never meant to hurt you like this!' Sherlock shouted. His hands shot up to his temples. 'I've never felt anything like this… guilt. It's not only these moments that I feel it, every time I look at you, I get reminded of what I did to you. I feel horrible.'  
John rested his head back on Sherlock's shoulder.

'Listen to me, Sherlock. Listen to me, and believe what I am saying to you. I don't give a damn about that. The only thing that matters to me is you and that you're still alive.'

Sherlock nodded, but John knew he hadn't really convinced him – yet. He lifted his head from Sherlock's chest and brushed his neck with his nose, pressing his lips there eventually.

Sherlock closed his eyes at the kiss and sighed. 'I am sorry.'

* * *

'The clue's in the name…' Sherlock muttered. 'In whose name?'

'I think it's safe to assume that Moriarty's name is used?' John said. 'Given that he set this whole thing up.'

'Yes… But it must have something to do with Riot Army and since that's formed of his name already… Sebastian Moran…'

'You think his name is used as well?' John asked. 'How can you even be sure the clue's in the name?'

'It's how he plays his game, John. I can't explain; I just know.'

John nodded. He knew Moriarty well. 'So… Sebastian Moran and James Moriarty.'

Sherlock nodded. They were at the kitchen table together, having cleaned up a small corner of it. Sherlock wrote down the letters and narrowed his eyes, shuffling the letters around in his head.

John did the same, but before he could write down all the letters, Sherlock's eyes widened again.

'We need to talk to Joe again.'

'Joe? What's Joe got to do with it?'

'Look, John. The letters. It is indeed an anagram – the only reasonably logical outcome that's to do with the headquarters of Riot Army. "Man in Riot Army base at Joe's arms".'

John gaped at his boyfriend. 'You figured that out… by one look?'

'Hardly difficult deduction,' Sherlock muttered. He looked at John and smiled. John's heart beat faster when he saw that luminous smile, he bit his lip and looked down. Sherlock knew what John thought and chuckled.

'So… What does it mean?' John asked.

'What does what mean?' Sherlock replied. '"Man in Riot Army base at Joe's arms"? Have you seen Joe, John? His head is covered in tattoos. I bet his arms are, too.'

'You're saying the next clue hides in Joe Beck's tattoo's?'

'Precisely.'

'Well, then, we have to visit him… again… and take a look at his tattoos. What are you expecting to find?'

'The next clue…' Sherlock muttered. 'Ah, Moriarty is smart. He obviously knows that I know the next clue will require another memory, stored away in my mind… He's been building up to this all this time – he might even have known we would both survive the fall…'

'Didn't you?'

'I knew I would.'

Sherlock was quiet after this – John figured he must still have a hard time dealing with everything that had happened. He knew he himself had.

'I'll contact Lestrade,' John said, jumping up from his chair and reaching for the phone. 'Is that all right?' he added when Sherlock didn't reply.

'Hm-hmmm,' the detective mumbled. He was staring at the wall, as if it would tell him what he needed to know. His hands were folded under his chin, fingertips pressed together and John knew he was still going through his memories, making sure he hadn't missed anything.

To John's relief, Lestrade answered his phone himself this time. 'Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade speaking. Who's this?'

'John Watson, I was wondering…'

'John,' Lestrade interrupted him, 'How's your wound?'

John wasn't aware of the fact that he rubbed his eyebrow when Lestrade asked about it. 'It's much better, thank you. I'm calling because…'

But for a second time Lestrade didn't let the doctor finish. 'Are you sure? It didn't look too good last time I saw it.'

'No really, Greg, I'm fine. Anyway, I need you to…'

'Okay, I'll believe you then. How are you and Sherlock? You two seemed a little,' he hesitated, 'quiet last time I spoke to you. Is everything alright?'

'Yes,' John hissed through his gritted teeth, 'Everything is fine! Now please will you let me finish?'

'Well, I'm sorry,' the DI said. He sounded a little insulted, but John didn't really care. 'What can I do for you?'

'We need to see Joe Beck again,' John replied. He could hear his friend sigh on the other end. 'I'm not sure if I can get you into Pentonville a third time.'

'You only got us in once!' John stated, remembering that Sherlock had called last time, pretending to be Lestrade.

'But they don't know that, do they? Never mind. I'll see what I can do. I'll ring you back.'

John hung up and turned towards Sherlock, who hadn't moved an inch. 'He'll call us back,' John reported. Sherlock nodded absentmindedly. John hesitated, for he knew how much Sherlock hated to be interrupted while thinking, but eventually asked; 'What else are you trying to find out? We know we need to visit Joe Beck again, isn't that enough?'

John's words finally seemed to come through and Sherlock shrugged. 'Perhaps it is. Perhaps it is not.' John rolled his eyes. That answer didn't tell him anything, but at least the detective had replied, which could only mean he wasn't thinking too deep anymore. After a few more minutes, Sherlock finally moved. He got up from the kitchen chair and started pacing the apartment. John couldn't know that the detective was no longer concentrating, and he didn't notice the short look Sherlock shot him. 'John,' Sherlock muttered. John immediately frowned, worried that Moriarty had entered his mind. Was Sherlock about to lose it again?

'John,' the detective repeated. John didn't notice that Sherlock's voice wasn't trembling, which it usually did when Moriarty was messing with him. John jumped up, and ran towards his boyfriend. 'Sherlock,' he muttered, falling into the standard procedure of helping him keep Moriarty out. 'Sherlock, he's not here. It's me. He's not here! It's alright…'

'I know. It's more than alright.'

John raised an eyebrow, surprised at Sherlock's reaction. Then their gaze met and John saw a sparkle in the detective's eyes. He had been joking. John hesitated, he wasn't sure whether he was angry or found it rather funny. He didn't get much time to think it through, and before he could bring anything out, Sherlock's lips brushed his. John's doubts disappeared immediately when he felt Sherlock's warm breath against his mouth. The detective pulled him closer by the waist, pressing their bodies tightly together. As their bodies touched, John felt the familiar tingles run through his own, making him shiver slightly. John had to stand on his toes at first, but he pulled Sherlock further down by his neck, making it much easier to reach the man's lips. The doctor brushed the dark curls out of the detective's face, and stroked his cheekbones with his other hand. He felt Sherlock's hands on his back, his fingers playing with his jumper. Then he carefully bit the doctor's lip and John pulled back for a second. Sherlock chuckled at his reaction, and leaned in a bit more, waiting for their kiss to continue. John tilted his head upwards and, while keeping their lips still locked, put his arms around Sherlock. When Sherlock's fingers softly tickled his neck and sent shivers down John's spine, the doctor felt the urge to touch Sherlock everywhere possible. He held one of his hands on the taller man's face, while his other hand ran down Sherlock's chest. He fiddled with the buttons on his shirt, trying to figure out whether he would open them, but then he decided there probably wasn't enough time, since Lestrade could call any minute. Instead of unbuttoning the shirt, he slid his hand underneath it and rubbed the detective's body. Sherlock gasped, because he hadn't expected to feel the doctor's hands. John grinned in delight as he felt Sherlock's muscles tense and then relax again. 'John,' Sherlock muttered quietly and John whispered his name in response. The two men stood there, in the middle of their flat, embracing each other and neither John nor Sherlock wanted to let the other go. John felt Sherlock's chest, felt his strong, yet unsteady heartbeat. His heartbeat which, by every move they made, seemed to beat faster. Sherlock moved his hands down to John's lower back, rubbing with a bit more intensity than he had originally planned to. John didn't mind though, enjoyed it even. **  
**

John pulled away a little when he felt Sherlock bite his lip. Sherlock chuckled at his reaction, and pulled the doctor back, holding him closely. He leaned in again, waiting for their kiss to continue. John pressed his lips against Sherlock's within seconds, and with full enthusiasm. Sherlock stumbled backwards, but prevented himself from falling over, by holding himself up against the desk. John pulled a hairsbreadth away and glanced at the desk, then he looked back at Sherlock, who immediately knew what the doctor was implying. Sherlock smiled deviously and before John could push him backwards any further, he leaned forwards. John felt the detective's breath blow past his cheek. The warmth spread through John's body, and the feeling caused goose bumps to spread over his entire skin. He could hear Sherlock's heavy breathing close to his ear as the detective whispered a soft; 'I know I've told you before, John, but I love you. I really do.' John wanted to reply and tell Sherlock he felt the same way, but all he could bring out was a small, short moan as the detective kissed him in his neck, just below his ear. Another grunt escaped from his mouth as Sherlock moved his head and pressed his lips against the doctor's ear. 'Oh Sherlock,' John sighed, as Sherlock opened his mouth a bit more, and softly nibbled his earlobe. The detective suppressed his laughter while the doctor grinned broadly. Sherlock's lips moved back into the doctor's neck, and John's body tensed at the excitement that rushed through him. He didn't notice how his grip on Sherlock's chest tightened for a few seconds, leaving small prints behind. With his strong, muscular arms, John eventually managed to push Sherlock backwards, which meant he landed on the desk. Just as John bent over to continue their kiss, Sherlock's phone rang. Sherlock sighed, but picked up nevertheless. 'Hello!' he said in a cheerful voice.

John could hear Lestrade's confusion on the other end. The detective inspector had never heard Sherlock answer his phone like that. John giggled nervously, knowing that he was the cause of Sherlock's happiness. His cheeks turned red, but Sherlock, who was focusing on his conversation with Lestrade, didn't seem to notice. 'Brilliant!' Sherlock said, and then shot a look at John who was still hovering over him. 'Of course I won't come alone. No. No, didn't he tell you? You just don't listen very well, do you?'

John guessed that they were talking about him. Lestrade wondered whether Sherlock would bring his faithful companion, which he would. 'Excellent. No, there's no need. Joe is not dangerous, Greg, please. No, I have called you that before! I have. Honestly. Do you prefer Lestrade, then? Just… No. Definitely not. What are you even implying? No! Could you listen to me for just a seco… Never mind.' Sherlock rolled his eyes and hung up. 'Lestrade's weird,' he muttered.

'Look who's talking.'

Sherlock laughed his low rumble and sat up, ready to leave for Pentonville Prison. 'What are you doing?' John asked while he pushed the detective back down. 'You're not going anywhere.'

Sherlock played along, and pretended to be annoyed by the fact that John wouldn't let him go. However, he gladly lay back down on the desk, and closed his eyes when John bent down. The doctor gently pressed his lips against the detective's. He was leaning on his arms, making sure his weight wouldn't be too much for Sherlock, but the other man got hold of John's jumper and pulled him down. They kissed each other with extreme enthusiasm, and held each other tightly. Both of them were panting heavily, but didn't stop what they were doing. John was already unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt again, eager to see and feel what was underneath again. It wasn't long before Sherlock's jacket and shirt as well as John's jumper and the shirt he'd been wearing underneath that were lying on the floor. John pushed himself up a bit, so that he could kiss Sherlock harder. The detective grunted quietly when one of John's hands moved to his lower back and the doctor softly pressed his fingers into his bare skin. Sherlock held John by the waist with one hand and pulled him down again. He pressed their bodies together and they could feel the other's heartbeat against their own chest. Sherlock ran his hand past John's cheek and brushed his hair out of the way. John's hand moved down from Sherlock's lower back to his buttocks, to eventually move over to his left leg. The detective gasped, then chuckled as he felt John's breathing speed up as well. Sherlock stroked the other man's chest, tracing his muscles with his long fingers. When he eventually reached the beginning of John's trousers he heard him sigh, for the doctor knew what was coming. Sherlock slowly moved his hands over John's jeans, rubbing his leg firmly and eventually stroking the inside of his thigh. Their lips were still locked, but John's moan was heard loud enough nevertheless. Sherlock smiled and bit the doctor's lip, and a soft 'oh God,' escaped from the doctor's mouth.

John panted heavily when he got up, but Sherlock gave him just enough time to breathe, before he clutched onto his shoulders again and the doctor was forced to continue their kissing. Sherlock's hand was still on the doctor's inner thigh, moving slowly up and down, making John's body tense occasionally. Whenever the doctor let out a sound, Sherlock stopped the stroking and bit the doctor's lip. With one hand John was still touching and stroking Sherlock's chest, the other hand had moved back up to Sherlock's lower back, holding him tightly. Sherlock muttered John's name every time the doctor's fingers gently pinched him. Sherlock pushed himself up, kissing John harder, but fell back onto his back when John's hand moved a bit further down. The doctor flushed and giggled when he saw the detective's eyes narrow as he touched his buttocks again. Sherlock joined in and it wasn't long before their kissing was interrupted by roars of laughter. John got up, and Sherlock followed his example. He detective kissed his boyfriend one more time, and then quickly planted a kiss on his head.

The duo picked their clothes from the floor and helped the other put their shirt on. John, who was getting used to working Sherlock's buttoned-down shirts, was the first to finish. Sherlock was still fumbling with John's buttons, though, and John couldn't suppress a smile as he eventually helped Sherlock out. Sherlock put his jacket on, followed by his trench coat and, after John had put his jumper on they left 221B. The weather was getting better, and compared to the previous days it was even warm. John, who liked spring and summer much, smiled when the sunlight shone in his face. Sherlock put an arm around him and said, 'It's a shame we have to travel by cab again, this would be the perfect weather to take a stroll.'

John nodded, surprised by Sherlock's interest in the sun. 'I thought you didn't like spring much,' he said with some confusion in his voice. Sherlock sniggered, 'I don't. But I like to walk around London, especially with you.'

John smiled and Sherlock grinned back. He was still eyeing John when the doctor spotted a cab driving through the street. 'Stop! Wait!' He shouted, waving his hands frantically, but the cab drove right past them. 'Seems like we're going to have to walk, after all,' John joked.

**24. ****The Face in the Crowd**

John and Sherlock's stroll didn't last long. They had only just turned the corner when they saw a second cab drive by. Both men thought it for the best if this time Sherlock tried to get the cabby's attention. They were right; that was for the best. The taxi-driver pulled over and the consulting detective and his army-doctor got in the car.

* * *

Traffic was bad, really bad, and they arrived at Pentonville Prison forty minutes later. The only good thing about their journey had been the cabby, who hadn't said a word about Sherlock's and John's relationship and hadn't even coughed when they had kissed. John was the first to leave the car. He sighed at the sight of Pentonville. Convinced that he'd seen the prison enough in the last few days, he hated the thought of going back in again. However, he felt better than last time, for he now knew for certain that Joe Beck was, in fact, a nice man. As far as 'nice' goes for murderers. Sherlock on the other hand, seemed incredibly cheerful. The detective practically skipped through the halls on his way to Joe's cell. Just like the previous times the guards promised to wait outside.

* * *

'You're back.' Joe Beck smiled as he saw his visitors come in. John knew the man wasn't talking to the pair of them, he spoke directly to Sherlock. 'How are you? Last time you left, you didn't seem to feel too good.'

Sherlock shrugged, 'I'm fine now.' He sat down next to Joe again, leaving John standing by the door.

'Are you here for more questions? Because I have nothing else to tell you, I'm afraid. I told you everything I knew.'

'I know you did. I don't want you to tell me anything else. I want you to show me something.'

Beck raised an eyebrow and his eyes narrowed. 'Show you what?'

'Your arms.'

The look of confusion vanished from his face as Joe started laughing. 'My arms?' He sniggered. Sherlock smiled at him and politely waited until he had gotten his act together again, then the detective nodded. 'Yes, your arms.'

Beck studied Sherlock's face but the rolled up his sleeves. 'What tattoo are you looking for?' he asked as he saw Sherlock scan his arms.

'How do you know we're looking for a tattoo?' John asked, thinking it was rather suspicious of Beck to know such a thing. Joe's eyes shot up to the doctor as if he only just noticed him.

'There's nothing else on my arms, now, is there?' The criminal said in a raw voice. He was right; his entire arms were covered in tattoos. In fact, John thought, the rest of his body probably was too. At least the man's head and neck. John shivered, he didn't like tattoos much.

'So, which one are you looking for? Just so you know, there isn't one that has anything to do with the Riot Army.'

Sherlock shook his head and absentmindedly mumbled, 'I know.'

'Then what _are _you looking for?' Beck asked for a third time. John shook his head at the criminal, gesturing that there was no point in asking anything. He knew that the consulting detective wouldn't give him any answers anyway.

Sherlock was still scanning Joe Beck's arms. _Man in Riot Army base at Joe Beck's arms. Man at his arms. I'm looking for a person, then…_

He frowned as he concentrated at every ink drawing he came across. _Hearts with names in them, skulls..._ _A skull? Like the ones in 221B? No, no, that has nothing to do with anything that Moriarty has ever done or said. _He pressed his hands against his temples as he heard Moriarty's voice say; _I did tell you, but did you listen…? _

'I always listen,' Sherlock muttered. 'I always listen and I will figure this out!'

John looked up, worried about his friend and told Joe Beck to get up from his bench. The criminal, who had no idea what was going on, did as he was told and let John sit down next to his boyfriend. 'Hey, Sherlock? Are you okay?'

The detective nodded, but John could tell by his trembling fingers that he was having a hard time. He put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders, causing Joe Beck to raise an eyebrow, and whispered; 'He's nothing, Sherlock. Not compared to you. You can beat him, you hear me?'

Sherlock nodded for a second time, feeling better now that he felt John's touch. He gestured Joe to step closer and continued looking at his arms. _We're going to make Rock 'n Roll history, Mallory, Lucy, Michael J. Elvis the King. Elvis? Hound dog? Hounds of Baskerville? No, Moriarty had nothing to do with that case. _

John was also trying to find anything useful, and just like Sherlock, realised he was searching for a face or a name of a man. He noticed lyrics from famous rock songs, names of bands, faces of great artists, but nothing seemed important enough.

Sherlock waved his arms around, as he always did when he was in his mind palace, eliminating certain words or drawings.

There were so many of them, and some of them were so small, that it could take ages for them to find the tattoo they were looking for. Sherlock eventually asked; 'Which one do you like best?'

Joe pointed at a dragon, spitting blue fire. 'This one.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'I'm not looking for mythical creatures,' he explained, 'I'm looking for a name, or the face, of a man.'

'But there are so many of them!' Beck exclaimed.

Sherlock sighed, 'Don't state the obvious. Which ones are important to you? Or could be important to the Army?'

Beck shrugged, 'I don't know about the Army, but I've always really liked this one.'

He pointed at a small face, that Sherlock immediately recognised.

'Bach.'

_Johann Sebastian would be appalled._

'Excellent!' Sherlock shouted excitedly. 'Brilliant, yes!'

_Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach!_

'Yes, 'thank you' are the exact words!'

John watched Sherlock jump up from the bench, and still eyed him when he stated pacing the small space. Joe Beck had a frown on his face, suggesting that he had no idea of why Bach was so important to Sherlock Holmes.

'Don't worry,' John said to the criminal, 'It's just the way his mind works.'

Beck laughed at this. Sherlock practically danced around the room, and jumped up and down in excitement before closing the cell door behind him. John Watson and Joe Beck looked at each other for a few seconds before John shrugged and said, 'Well, I better be off.'

'See you soon, I suppose.'

John nodded, 'Probably, yes.'

He had almost left the cell when Beck called after him, 'Tell Sherlock he can visit me whenever he likes,' and then he added, 'And you're welcome too, just so you know.'

John shot him a last smile and then hurried after Sherlock.

John caught up with his boyfriend outside of Pentonville, where he found the detective staring at a fancy car. John already knew the answer, but asked his question anyway. 'Whose car is that?'

'It's Mycroft's.'

John nodded. Of course it was Mycroft, they hadn't heard from him for over a week. It was time for Sherlock's big brother to check in.

A black umbrella was the first part of Mycroft that left the car. It was followed by the rest of the other Holmes. 'Well, well, well, what brings you to prison, little brother? Did they lock you up here? Did they finally realise you were a danger to our society?'

'You _are_ our society, Mycroft. I do not believe I am a danger to you…'

'I beg to differ,' Mycroft started, but before he could say anything else John interrupted him. 'We were here to see a,' he hesitated, 'friend.'

'Of Sherlock's?'

John knew this wasn't the first time he had heard these words come from Mycroft's mouth. He ignored the comment though and continued, 'What are you doing here?'

'I'm here to see you, of course.'

Sherlock sighed. He wanted to leave for 221B as soon as possible, but knew that Mycroft wouldn't just let them go, and if he would then…

'We've really got to go home,' John said.

'Oh, really? Lovely! Then I'll come with you. Perhaps you could make me some more of that delicious tea you made the other day?'

… He would invite himself over.

* * *

Mycroft's car was big enough to get all three of them, their driver and a woman named Anthea in. John remembered her. She had been in car with him the first time he had met Mycroft. She had been playing with her phone in the exact same way as she was doing now. She hardly spoke. 'How have you been?' John asked, trying to make conversation. She shot him a bored look a replied, 'Great.' There was definitely sarcasm in her answer, but John decided to ignore it. Ignore her.

The Holmes brothers didn't speak to each other, but Mycroft seemed to get along with his driver, whom he talked to the entire time they were driving through London. Sherlock sat next to John, holding his hand but not saying a word. The frown on his face and the blank stare in his eyes told John that he was thinking. John knew he would be of no help to Sherlock concerning the Bach problem, for he didn't even fully understand it. He hoped Sherlock would explain everything later on, after Mycroft had gone home.

* * *

John was desperately trying to boil some water for tea. Was the water even supposed to boil? He didn't remember how he had managed last time… Then he realised he never made Mycroft any tea. He had offered to do so last time, but he had never actually made any. He heard voices coming from the living room.

'I liked the picture on the papers the other day,' Mycroft said, 'I found it rather moving, Sherlock.'

'What are you doing here?'

'I'm here to talk to you.'

'About what?'

'Whatever you like. I'm sure there must be a topic we can discuss without getting into a fight?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'I highly doubt that,' he said. 'Why are you doing this?'

Even John knew the answer to that; it was easy. Mycroft had really regretted some of his actions after he thought he'd lost his brother. He was trying to make up for them, so that next time, he would be able to forgive himself. Next time? John shivered at the thought. There wouldn't be a next time; Sherlock wasn't going to die. Not for long.

'Look,' he heard Mycroft's voice say, 'Whatever you do in your deduction hole…'

John chuckled quietly; he recognised Sherlock's sense of humour in Mycroft at times.

'…I would like you to keep me updated. Just talk, once in a while.'

'I'll call you.'

'I want to come over, too.'

'I said; I'll call you.'

John heard two chairs move. 'Leave the tea, John!' Mycroft called.

John sighed in relief as he heard the front door slam shut.

'That was a short visit,' he said as he came walking back into the living room.

'Too long, if you ask me.'

The doctor shook his head, 'You should really get over whatever happened in your childhood. Both of you.'

'We just don't get along.'

John decided to change the topic, because the discussions about Sherlock's family always ended in the same result; a cranky Sherlock and a confused John.

'What have you found out so far?'

Sherlock knew that his boyfriend was asking for a full explanation this time, so he began, 'Moriarty referred to Bach several times. I found the comments rather odd, and they never seemed to make sense to me, but then again, hardly anything Moriarty did does.'

John nodded, 'Okay, so the tattoo you were looking for was Bach, he was the man on Joe Beck's arms, but how's that linked to the Riot Army base?'

Sherlock shrugged, 'I'm not sure. Man in Riot Army base at Joe's arms,' he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He sat down in his leather chair again and rested his face in his hands. There was a long silence which was broken by the rumbling of John's stomach. 'I'm sorry,' he whispered as Sherlock looked up, clearly distracted from his thoughts.

'You're hungry! What time is it?'

'Two o'clock,' John replied, his stomach made another noise.

'You need to eat!' Sherlock jumped up and was already on his way out when John stopped him. 'Really, Sherlock, I'm fine. We don't need to go, we can solve this thing, first.'

But Sherlock shook his head, 'No,' he said, 'we're going out for lunch.'

'Sherlock…' John said in annoyed voice. He really didn't want the detective to lose precious time because his stupid, human boyfriend needed to eat. A warm feeling spread through his body as he thought of Sherlock as his boyfriend. It made him feel complete. He nearly gave in to Sherlock's idea of going on a lunch date, but still insisted on solving their latest riddle. As Sherlock made his way to the door, John jumped in front of him and pushed him backwards. 'No, no, no. You're going to deduce.' He guided the detective back to his chair and sat him down. Sherlock let out a sigh as he realised he wasn't going to convince John. It bothered him, he didn't feel like thinking…

'What?' John exclaimed. 'You, Sherlock Holmes, don't feel like thinking?'

Sherlock was about to shrug when he suddenly understood. His cheeks turned slightly red as he realised what he did feel like.

'What?' John asked with a curious smile on his face.

'I don't want to think,' Sherlock explained, 'because of you.'

John's smile broadened as Sherlock tugged his jumper and pulled him down into his chair. John put his arms around Sherlock's neck and let the detective's hands pull him closer. They looked at each other for a few seconds before John lowered his head and kissed his boyfriend. Sherlock held one of his hands on John's back, and lowered the other down to John's leg. John got nervous as soon as Sherlock even threatened to stroke his inner thigh, which made the detective smile. John, however, decided that this time he wouldn't give in to his weak spot. It was time for Sherlock to do so, though. The doctor chuckled quietly at the thought. Sherlock removed his hands from John's body to take off his own jacket. John stroked Sherlock's cheek and leaned forward a bit further, leaving his lips, and gently kissing him in the neck. Sherlock shivered, but his muscles didn't move the way John wanted them to, yet. He lowered his head a little further, so that he could press his lips against the detective's ear. His hands ran down Sherlock's back, feeling everything they could. One of them stopped at the beginning of the other man's trousers, the other continued downwards. Sherlock gasped as he felt John slowly move his hand over his buttocks, down to his leg.

John grinned. Sherlock had moved his hand to his thigh again, desperately trying to make John succumb – but John was determined. Sherlock was obviously having a hard time hiding his feelings, he breathed heavily when John touched his leg with just his fingertips, leaving a lingering tingle.

'John.' Sherlock's moan was nothing like the pleading whispers he made when Moriarty was in his head again. The tone in his voice made something in John stir, made him breathe faster, his heart beat more rapidly, his touch more enthusiastic, his kisses more fierce. 'Sherlock…'

Sherlock gasped when he felt John's hand moving upwards again, stroking his legs, hips and buttocks tenderly. He reached the detective's shirt and pulled it out of his trousers, his hands sliding upwards across his chest and unbuttoned the top button. He opened his eyes and found Sherlock looking at him, biting his lip to stop himself from making any noises. John wanted noises.  
While unbuttoning, John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock in the neck, jaw, ear – everywhere except for his mouth. When he reached the detective's stomach, he opened his mouth, breathed for a few seconds – he knew how he himself loved Sherlock's breath – then stroked Sherlock's earlobe with his open mouth, gently biting it when he opened the last button on Sherlock's tight shirt.

Finally, Sherlock parted his lips and grunted, closing his eyes. 'John,' he muttered again through clenched teeth. 'You…' But he didn't finish his sentence, because John had moved his hands down towards his weak spot again and remained there this time, still nibbling his ear. Sherlock sighed and breathed, a high, squeaky undertone accompanied with his low voice.

'All right, do it, then,' John murmured. He removed one hand from Sherlock's buttocks, getting hold of Sherlock's wrist. He put Sherlock's right hand on his thigh, and kissed him in the neck.

Sherlock obliged willingly, stroking John's leg carefully. Every time the detective brushed his inner thigh, John shivered uncontrollably, making Sherlock laugh. John knew Sherlock couldn't keep himself from shivering when he did the same, and decided to show him that.

'John…!' Sherlock's grunt started soft but ended in an animal-like growl, experiencing feelings he had never felt before. He arched his back unconsciously, holding his breath. 'I need you – now.' He reached out toward John's face, leaving the doctor's weak spot. He curled his long, pale fingers around John's neck, pulling him close. He grunted, satisfied, when he felt his lips touch John's. John suddenly made a noise that didn't even seem human, at first._  
_  
Startled, Sherlock bit John's lip – and not that gently. John, however, didn't notice and put his arms around his boyfriend, hugging him tight. He made it into a game, his hands immediately touching, stroking, caressing Sherlock's body. He loved the muscular yet skinny lines, the way it curved and shaped, forming the most magnificent body he'd ever seen. He pulled away for a second, tilting his head as he saw Sherlock's face edge forward, his lips still partly open, as if he hadn't yet noticed John's mouth was not there anymore. 'Sherlock…'

'John.'

John smiled and leaned forward again. It was too perfect, the way Sherlock said his name. Every time he heard the soft whisper coming from the detective's mouth he wanted to laugh out loud.

Sherlock, most of the time, didn't even realise he muttered his boyfriend's name – it just happened, always, when John was on his mind.

Sherlock's hands were partly on John's neck, partly on his cheeks. With his fingertips, he played with John's hair, making John shiver as goose bumps spread down his neck. He wasn't kissing the doctor that fiercely anymore, but because there was so much feeling and so much understanding in that one sweet kiss, both men felt hot and hungry for more.

Sherlock's lips gently brushed John's, and while Sherlock sighed deeply, he ran his hand down John's neck, shoulder and arm, stopping when he reached his wrist. Wanting to feel the result of his kiss, the reaction he got from John, he closed his fingers around John's wrist, the doctor's hand still on his upper thigh. Sherlock knew he could just as easily put his hand to his boyfriend's chest, but he chose a more subtle approach.

However subtle his actions might be, John instantly knew what he was doing and pulled back. 'Sherlock – are you searching for confirmation that I love you? That I do this willingly?'

'No,' Sherlock whispered. 'I want to feel your heartbeat. It makes me feel… good.'

'Oh.' John felt stupid – he knew he should never doubt Sherlock Holmes, but sometimes he just wasn't sure of himself. 'I love you,' he sighed, just to make sure Sherlock believed him.

'Oh, John, I love you, too. Is it necessary to say it so much?'

John pulled back again, realising it was an actual question when he saw the confused look on Sherlock's face. 'Well, I guess it's not, but… I like saying it. And I love hearing it…'

'I love you,' Sherlock repeated, smiling when John told him he loved hearing it. He wanted to make John feel the way John made him feel. 'You make me so happy.'

John giggled, but just at that moment, Sherlock leaned forward again and pressed his lips to his without any hesitation or doubt. John almost fell from the chair by the force, but Sherlock held him tightly, allowing no escape.

It was always a game between the two, of trying to please the other as much as possible. They both wanted the upper hand, but they also wanted to be pleased, to be kissed, to be touched.

John decided on the upper hand, first, and grabbed Sherlock's shoulders as he got up from the chair. He pulled the tall detective along with him, now standing in the middle of the living room again. John put his right hand around Sherlock's back, his left on the man's neck, pulling his face down with his amazing though gentle strength. When he pressed himself tighter to him, he felt Sherlock's bare chest go up and down, breathing heavily and he realised he was getting rather good at manipulating him. John's right hand brushed down, rubbing Sherlock's back and when he reached the man's trousers, he slid his hand underneath the open shirt, tracing the long, straight line of the detective's back. He felt Sherlock's shoulder's soon enough and stroked the tense muscles, kissing Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock breathed deeply, enjoying the shivers that ran down his spine when John touched his back. He clenched his fists, trying to keep himself from shuddering too much, but it was of no use. John smiled, pulling back and moved his hands from Sherlock's back to his chest in one smooth movement. With his index fingers, he traced the man's collar bones, ending up and his shoulders again. Sherlock chuckled softly when he felt the soft fabric of his shirt fall off his shoulders and drop on the floor. He moved his own hands to John's collar and started to unbutton his shirt, over which he had not pulled a jumper or sweater this time.

John was amused by the fact Sherlock seemed to have much more trouble with his shirts than he had with Sherlock's. He didn't interfere, though, for he liked how Sherlock played with them to make up for the slow process. He also liked the detective's warm breath blowing in his jaw, indicating his lips were just a few inches away.

Sherlock stroked John's upper body, pressing his lips to John's jaw, brushing his nose to the hollow behind it, nibbling his ear. He grinned when he felt John's shivers.

'Sherlock…' John whispered. Sherlock had finally succeeded in unbuttoning his shirt and had taken it off in one motion, not interrupting their kiss. His hands immediately curled around John's back, as he kissed the doctor with renewed enthusiasm. Hearing John sigh his name, his stomach made that loop again and instinctively, he breathed in deeply and pressed his body closer to John's.

John's hands rubbed down Sherlock's bare back, passing the edge of his trousers and sliding down to his upper thighs, his fingertips on the inside of it. Sherlock was caught by surprise and he shuddered, losing his balance and stumbling backwards. John knew what was coming and kept his right hand where it was, but pushed Sherlock down with his other by the shoulder.  
Sherlock's back slammed on the desk with a loud noise, and a low grunt escaped from his mouth. It wasn't because the fall hurt, but quite the opposite. John had let himself fall on top of Sherlock – gently, of course – and started kissing him more fiercely than before, stroking his chest with both hands.

'Oh, _God_, John – ' he gasped, followed by a quiet moan; John had moved his lips from Sherlock's mouth, breathing heavily, and brushed them to his skin as he moved downwards, across the detective's neck, following an invisible but familiar line towards his jaw and ear. One of John's hands shot up to Sherlock's face, running through his soft curls, brushed them out of the way when he continued pressing small kisses on Sherlock's cheekbones.

'You still don't feel like thinking…?' John muttered, his breath warming Sherlock's cheek.

'Oh, I feel like thinking. About you,' Sherlock replied. He could not see John's face, but he could almost feel a smile forming around the corners of his mouth.

'But you do have to start working on the whole Bach thing.'

Sherlock closed his eyes, frowning. He did not want to at all, not when John's body was so close to him, his breath so warm. 'First things first,' he mumbled.

'No, Sherlo – ' But John's plea ended in a grunt, because Sherlock had pulled him closer and he had lost his balance, falling on top of him with no restraint. The thud made Sherlock sigh, and soon both of them were laughing.

'Sherlock, you're going to think, now. I'll make myself some food,' he murmured when he felt his stomach churn again. Sherlock chuckled at the sound. Everything about John made him smile at the moment, and he didn't want to leave those feelings and replace them with the bitter coldness of Jim Moriarty.

But he had to, for the sake of the case. It had been a long while without any victims, but they didn't know the size of Riot Army and whether they should expect another murder soon. Biting his lower lip, he pondered about what to do next. John's heartbeat sounded invitingly close. Moriarty was about to invite himself in. John's eyes were full of warmth and love. Moriarty's were cold and mocking. John's hands touched him with care, making him shiver in delight. Moriarty took his hand, making him shiver with his cold touch. John loved him; Moriarty loved playing with him.

John helped Sherlock up, got him dressed again (and himself), turned him around by the shoulders and walked him back to his chair, pushed him down in it and gave him his violin. Unconsciously, he started playing – a melody composed by Johann Sebastian Bach.  
_  
'Johann Sebastian would be appalled… May I?' Moriarty asked, after he'd picked up an apple from the fruit basket on the coffee table. Sherlock directed him to the red chair with his violin bow, but Moriarty ignored him and sat down in his leather seat._

_Sherlock hid his annoyance and turned his attention to the tea. Moriarty got out a jack-knife and started to slice pieces off the apple._

_'You know, when he was on his deathbed… Bach… He heard his son at the piano play one of his… pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end…'_

_'And the dying man jumped out of bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it.'_

_'Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody…'_

_'Neither can you, it's why you've come.' Sherlock handed Moriarty his tea cup._

_'Admit you're just a tiny bit pleased,' Moriarty continued._

_'What, with the verdict?' Sherlock asked, looking at Moriarty suspiciously._

_'With me,' Moriarty whispered. 'Back on the streets…'_

The tones played on the violin slowed down, trailed off into the silence. John was sitting across from him again, half a sandwich in his hand. Sherlock frowned when he realised he was sitting in the same seat as Moriarty had.  
_  
'I never liked riddles.'_

_'Learn to.'_

He put his violin away again. It wasn't necessary anymore.  
_  
Johann Sebastian Bach…  
German composer. Organist, harpsichordist, violist, violinist. Born 1685.  
Brandenburg Concertos… Mass B in Minor…  
'Partita Number One, thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach!'  
Vision deteriorated. Died 1750.  
Baroque.  
What's this got to do with Riot Army headquarters?  
_  
'John, do you know anything about Bach?' he asked suddenly. Maybe he was thinking too difficult. Maybe he needed an average mind to tell him what he knew.  
_  
That's your weakness, you always want things to be clever!_

John widened his eyes. 'Me? You're asking _me _for help?'

Sherlock sighed. 'Do you?'

John thought for a moment. 'I know he was a composer… I know some of his work. I know his health and vision deteriorated, even though he still made music, despite the fact that he couldn't see as good anymore.' John frowned. 'How are we going to link anything to do with Bach to Riot Army?'

'No idea,' Sherlock mused. 'I can't think like this. It's not working.'

John looked at the mirror hanging above the fireplace. Around it were only a few pictures from the two crime scenes they had visited over the past few days, a few files concerning Joe Beck and the name 'Moriarty' in the middle of it all, connecting everything. 'Maybe we should add Bach to the rest,' he said, nodding towards the mess.

Sherlock looked up, his fingertips pressed together in that familiar way of his. 'You do that. I need to think.'

'You just said you couldn't,' John said, walking to his laptop. Sherlock didn't answer; he was staring at the wall opposite him.

'All these clues seem a little farfetched for me,' John continued. 'The anagram… it could have formed at least a thousand more words and sentences. And Bach – there were so many faces and names tattooed on Joe's arms.'

'Moriarty knows how I think, and I know how his mind works. I am certain we are on the right track,' Sherlock replied, a bit defiantly.

'I never said we weren't.'

'Hmmm,' was Sherlock's only answer. 'Bach… _Bach_… Johann Sebastian Bach…'

'What has he ever done in his life?' John asked, curious about how much his boyfriend knew about the German composer.

'Composing, nothing else.'

'Nothing else?'

'Well, of course there were some things…' Sherlock knitted his eyebrows. 'Nothing of immediate importance. The main thing he did throughout his whole life was composing. Making music.'

'So, maybe we should take that as our focus point. Music.'

Sherlock glanced at his violin unconsciously. All the music composed by Bach he could play on the violin shot through his mind. He remembered Moriarty had used the rhythm of Partita No. 1 for the "computer key code". _Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody… _Everything Moriarty had said had something to do with Bach's music.

'Perhaps you're right.'

John, eating the last of his sandwich, reached for a newspaper that was on the floor. They weren't on the front page anymore, though there were still some pictures of them throughout the whole paper. The hot topics were their relationship and their current investigation, mainly about the shooting with Moran that had happened not long ago.

'When was the last time _you've _eaten?' John asked, not recalling having seen Sherlock eat for the past few days.

'Don't know, what day is it?'

'It's Thursday,' John answered.

'No, I'm all right. Last meal was that toast you've given me.'

'But that was Tuesday!' John exclaimed. 'Sherlock! You're going to eat, right now. Did you know that nutrition is actually good for your brain?'

'Not for my body. Digesting slows me down.'

'For God's sake – you need to eat!'

Sherlock looked sideways, his hands still pressed together. A teasing smile played around his lips as he whispered, 'make me.'  
John decided to play along and stood up, almost dragging the detective out of his chair. 'Seems like we're going out on a lunch date after all,' he said.

Sherlock chuckled. He actually quite liked the fact that John took care of him, made sure he remained healthy.

'Where are we going?' John asked. Sherlock never went to the same place twice – at least, not so soon.

'There's a nice little lunch room close to Hyde Park,' Sherlock said. 'We should take a cab there, it might be a bit of a long walk.'  
John nodded. As they walked out of Baker Street, holding hands, the sun shone in their faces. Sherlock, being the pale, sun-hating person he had always been, immediately averted his eyes and looked sideways at John, who seemed to enjoy the warm glow on his face.

'We'll take a stroll through Hyde Park, then,' Sherlock promised his boyfriend. He squeezed John's hand for a moment, smiling at him. John looked back, excited. 'That would be nice,' he replied, squeezing back. Sherlock bent forward and gave him a tiny kiss on the mouth, right in the middle of the street. Young girls giggled, others looked offended, but most people smiled compassionately.  
Sherlock raised his hand – the one that wasn't holding John's – and signalled a cab over. He gave the cabby the address and opened the door for John to get in.

'Are you ever hungry?' John asked, curious.

'Not really.'

John frowned, realising it wasn't a real answer to his question, but he was satisfied nevertheless. A few weeks ago, Sherlock might not even have answered him in the first place.

He looked out the window, remembering how their relationship used to be before their first kiss. John had referred to Sherlock as his colleague in the beginning, but later came to realise that Sherlock had been his best friend. They had a bond, a connection that no one could break. They were so different, yet so perfect for each other.

Unconsciously, he rested his head on Sherlock's left shoulder, where Sherlock immediately started playing his hair. 'A lunch date it is,' he whispered.

'Hmmm,' John sighed. He couldn't believe how lucky he was. Sherlock Holmes was his boyfriend, they were together, but most of all – he was alive.

* * *

**We've warned you. If this was a bit too much, let us know and we'll try to tone it down for our sequel (the rest of this has already been written, so you've got to sit it through, haha xD). But please review and tell us your thoughts, we'll try to incorporate everything you say in everything we'll ever write! Thanks for reading!**


	13. Chapters 25 and 26

**25. Newspapers**

They arrived at a tiny little café somewhere near the park. John's stomach squirmed even more when he saw all the things other people ate and the smells coming from the kitchen. He wouldn't waste time on a warm lunch, though, and decided to go with a nice sandwich – the one at home had not really been enough.

He looked at Sherlock with raised eyebrows, compelling him into ordering something. The detective made a face but obliged, if only to stop John from nagging about it. They were quiet as they waited for their orders, but they did not need to speak. Looking at each other was enough. John looked into Sherlock's beautiful pale green eyes and instantly felt happy, a totally different feeling in his stomach than hunger. He had never seen the detective's eyes filled with such warmth and feeling – at times, he had seemed rather cold. But that was before their relationship.

Unconsciously, John reached out towards Sherlock's right hand, which lay on the table beside the menu. Sherlock smiled when John took it, gently rubbing the back of his hand with his thumb.

John smiled back, wondering why there never were much people taking photographs around them lately – their relationship was a big topic since the first photograph outside Herbrand Street. Then he realised Sherlock picked all their restaurants and cafés for a reason; they were small and no photographer would expect them to go there.

John actually didn't care anymore about any photos or articles written about them, he knew that he would not be able to hide their relationship, even if he wanted to, and the only thing the people read was the truth. They could just as well kiss right in the middle of a busy street. John blushed at the thought.

Sherlock noticed and wondered what John was thinking about. He knew it must have something to do with him, for he never blushed like that any other way. 'What is it?' he asked, narrowing his eyes.

'Oh, I was just thinking about the press and why they haven't been following us around lately.'

'I made a deal with Mycroft this morning. He is pretty quick, isn't he? But…' Sherlock whispered, leaning closer. 'That doesn't answer my question.'

'Well – ' John's pink face turned scarlet. 'They publish things about us, and… I thought… they wouldn't publish anything less than the truth, so we could just… you know,' he mumbled.

'We could what?'

'We could just as well kiss on the streets,' John muttered, a tiny smile forming around his lips.

'Or in cafés,' Sherlock whispered. Before John could process his words, he put his left hand on John's cheek, while keeping the other where it was – holding John's – and leaned forward, pulling John's face towards his. Sherlock closed his eyes a split second before the kiss, enjoying John's confusion.

The small kiss didn't last long, but left both men gasping for breath. John giggled nervously when he realised no one had been staring at them, for a change. 'I love you,' he muttered.

Sherlock stroked John's cheek with his thumb, whispering 'I love you' back. He removed his hand when the waitress came, carrying two plates – one considerably smaller – but kept his right hand still on the table, covered by the warmth of John's.  
'Thank you,' he said to the girl, who was eyeing them curiously, her glances to their hands not at all inconspicuous. She nodded and smiled shyly before returning to the counter.

John shook his head. 'You never stop to amaze me, Sherlock,' he said.

'What? Why?' Sherlock asked.

'You thanked that girl,' John said with raised eyebrows. 'The old Sherlock would never have done that.'

'Well, then I suppose I am not the old Sherlock.'

They both laughed and started eating – or rather, John did. Sherlock was picking at his food, playing with it as though to trick John into thinking he was eating. John shot Sherlock a number of stern looks and eventually, Sherlock started eating, breaking off tiny bites. He had to admit it was actually pretty good and when John was done, Sherlock had already eaten half of his portion.

John smiled at Sherlock's reluctance and decided to help him out. 'As long as you eat something, I'm okay,' he chuckled. 'And as long as you're eating healthy.'

Sherlock nodded. 'I know how to take care of myself, thank you very much.'

'Yeah, well, you're on nicotine patches and you once used drugs – last time I checked, that's not really healthy.'

'You do trust me, don't you?' Sherlock asked, a tiny bit hurt. 'I won't go back to drugs again. It wasn't working anyway,' he added to himself.  
John shook his head and decided not to go into this any deeper. 'Let's go,' he said, standing up and putting his coat back on.

Sherlock, who was still wearing his coat, followed him and left some cash on the table.

'A stroll, then?' John asked, a hopeful tone in his voice.

'I promised, didn't I?'

* * *

It was barely spring, but the sun shone brightly and left a warm tingle on their faces. They were both amazed by the weather, which could be so enjoyable in April. There was a light, chilly breeze but neither one of them cared, for their coats kept them warm – and the presence of the other.  
They walked through Hyde Park, holding hands, talking about pretty much everything. It was a nice walk, even Sherlock had to admit, as the followed the path like so many people, walking with their dogs, jogging, or taking a stroll just like them.

'Look at us, Sherlock,' John mused, looking around at the people, birds and the occasional squirrel. 'We never would have thought we would ever walk through Hyde Park together, holding hands, while in a relationship. And yet, here we are…'

'Hmm,' Sherlock agreed. 'And to be honest, I don't mind at all.'

'Me neither,' John replied, briefly brushing his arm against Sherlock's. They remained quiet for a few minutes, and John knew that Sherlock wasn't just thinking about anything – he was still thinking about the case. That was the thing with Sherlock Holmes, he could never completely focus on something else when there was a pressing case right under his nose.

Something had bothered John from the beginning Sherlock told him about Bach, but he couldn't remember what it was. He was sure he'd seen something, or read something about the German composer some time ago, but he had no clear memory of it.  
They passed one of the many statues when Sherlock let go of John's hand, only to put his arm around the doctor's waist instead. His fingers gently played with the fabric of his coat, pulling John closer against him.

John put his arm around Sherlock as well and looked up at him, such a happy look on his face, Sherlock couldn't resist chuckling.  
They passed a bench with a rubbish bin next to it. Someone had attempted to throw a newspaper in it, but probably missed in a hurry, Sherlock figured. John noticed it, too, but stopped in his tracks as he saw which article faced upwards.

'John –?' Sherlock stammered when John walked up to it and picked the paper up. 'Look at this article, Sherlock.'

'You still care about what people write about us, John? You said so yourself, they publish nothing more than the truth – '

'No, Sherlock, look! Bach,' John said, practically shoving the newspaper under Sherlock's nose.

Sherlock frowned. The article was small, it was just an announcement of a festival to be held in London the next day, concerning –

'Johann Sebastian Bach,' Sherlock muttered. 'Found you…'

* * *

'We're not going to contact Lestrade, then?' John asked, the newspaper with the article on his lap. Before they were going to visit the festival, they wanted the precise data. 'They were not very amused last time, when we went off on our own…'

'John, Moriarty knows the police will be no match to him. It's us he wants to destroy, and he knows I am the only one who will be able to find him.'

'But if it results into a bloodbath – '

'Then we'll have some explaining to do, but Lestrade will understand. Where was that festival again?' he asked, pacing around the flat, his hands folded underneath his chin.

'It's in this building, a sort of concert hall, or so it says here… they will be playing some of his music…'

'Address?'

John gave him the address. He had no idea where it was, but then, he didn't have a road map of London in his head.  
Sherlock's gaze focused and he looked up, as he always did when he realised something. 'That's perfect…' he muttered. 'That's perfect! That's where the headquarters are.'

'Sorry, what? The headquarters are in the same building?'

'Yes. It's huge – I've been there before… I'm sure the first floor will be used for the orchestra, but the top floor… again, that's where we need to be. Dull,' he added, raising an eyebrow.

'So what, we'll just go to that festival, try to blend in and search for a secret society of murderers?' John asked incredulously.  
'Exactly.' Sherlock was still pacing around the flat, but now with a spring in his step. The thought of another action instead of thinking excited him, and he couldn't wait to go and investigate.

He looked over his shoulder at his boyfriend sitting in his chair, rubbing his eyebrow. Guilt hit him when he saw the doctor. He had been cut in the eyebrow by a shard of glass, his arm had been shot and he had almost been burnt to death in the warehouse. He thought about how brave the army doctor was, but then he realised he had also been a soldier in Afghanistan and he had been through worse. 'I don't deserve you, John…' he whispered.

'What?' John asked. 'Why are you saying that?'

'Look at everything I put you through,' Sherlock said, stepping closer. He knelt down beside his boyfriend and gently touched his eyebrow, while with his other hand traced the scar on his right arm, the stitches not yet removed. The burns weren't visible anymore, but John understood. Sherlock's hand finally moved to the war wound on his left shoulder and the detective looked up. 'Every time we go somewhere, you get hurt. And you never complain. You even got kidnapped by the Black Lotus, Moriarty had put a bomb around you.'

'Yeah, well, you cut your arm in the warehouse, right?' John countered, even though he knew it was a bad argument. Sherlock shook his head. 'I am a danger to you, John.'

'And I wouldn't have it any other way,' John replied. 'The war has changed me, Sherlock. Before, I was carefree, innocent and naïve. When I came to Afghanistan, I saw the bad side of the world, the violence, death. I saw friends of mine die, I saw wounded die because I wasn't there fast enough. But with you, Sherlock, even though we might go through some dangerous things, I get the feeling I can do something about it.'

Again, Sherlock felt moved by John's choice of words. He looked at the shorter man, his mouth hanging open, trying to find words that could truly describe how he felt. The closest he could come up with was; 'I love you, John. I love you so much.'

John stood up from his chair, and hugged his best friend, burying his face in Sherlock's chest. Sherlock rested his head on John's, closing his eyes.  
They stood like that a little longer before John turned his head to the right, glancing at the sofa. He looked at Sherlock from the corners of his eyes, and grinned. Sherlock rolled his eyes in amusement and walked with John as the shorter man pulled him along by his wrist.

They reached the edge of the sofa, and both men looked down briefly before looking up at the other man again. Sherlock was a split second faster and pushed John down on the sofa by the shoulders.

The sofa seemed smaller than it did before, and there was no room beside John. Sherlock lay on top of him, chuckling delightedly when he heard John grunt when he hit the cushions.

The sofa was just long enough for Sherlock, but since he was on top of John his feet stuck out the end. Sherlock put his arms around John and breathed in his neck, causing a soft moan to come from John's mouth before he pressed his lips to the breath-warmed skin.

'Sherlock…'

Sherlock smiled and continued kissing John, slowly moving upwards towards his mouth. Sherlock's hands traced John's body, ending up at his thighs just at the moment their lips met.

John responded with full enthusiasm, stroking Sherlock's cheekbones. He felt Sherlock's soft touch on his legs and shivered, pressing himself closer to Sherlock's body. He felt his heartbeat better than his own, and wanted to see the muscles which moved so magnificently underneath his shirt. As soon as they'd gotten home, Sherlock had removed his jacket, so all there was to do for John was to unbutton the shirt he was wearing. His fingers trembling with excitement, John started fumbling with the first button. As the first part of Sherlock's bare chest appeared John traced some of the detective's muscles with his fingertips. With every button he opened, John kissed Sherlock's neck in a different spot. Sherlock felt John's hot breath blow past his ear, leaving the detective eager for more. When the doctor pressed his lips against his jawline, just in front of his ear, Sherlock let out a soft grunt. He heard, but mostly felt, John chuckle, as his body went up and down and his breathing became unsteady. The latter was, obviously, not just caused by laughter, but also by excitement. John felt Sherlock's grip around him tighten with every button and every kiss. Every time he felt the detective's fingers clench onto him, a warm feeling spread through him. John pulled Sherlock nearer and brushed their lips together, slowly and gently, while unbuttoning the last two buttons of Sherlock's shirt. With one hand John stroked Sherlock's chest, he used the other one to touch Sherlock's face. Sherlock lowered his head a bit further, and the familiar tingling feeling came back to John in an instant as he felt Sherlock's warm lips against his left ear. At first, the detective kissed it, then he softly bit it. Goosebumps appeared all over John's neck and shoulders as Sherlock's warm, unsteady breath blew past his ear. With Sherlock's lips in his neck and his hands trying to unbutton his shirt, John played with the tension changes in Sherlock's body. Every time Sherlock kissed his neck, the doctor moved his hands down a bit. He felt Sherlock's muscles tense, and heard him take in heavy breaths. John's fingers softly tickled the detective's skin, which made him chuckle, but didn't stop him from fiddling with John's shirt. The doctor grinned when he noticed that Sherlock was learning; he didn't seem to have any trouble unbuttoning it, anymore.

One of John's hands moved to Sherlock's back, stroking it gently and lowering down to his waist. Sherlock whispered John's name and gasped as he felt the doctor's hands move towards his weak spot. John took his time, still enjoying the responses of Sherlock's body to his every movement. The taller man muttered the doctor's name again, but this time in his hoarse voice that John hadn't heard in a while. 'John,' he repeated, 'I'm warning you, if you…' But his boyfriend didn't listen to his teasing threats at all. He moved his hand down to the beginning of Sherlock's pants and felt the taller man's entire body tense at once as he stroked his buttocks, and then moved his hand down to the inside of his leg. Sherlock, who was still holding on to John's back, clenched his fists and John let out a loud moan as the detective's fingers dug into his skin. Sherlock grinned, not because he accidently hurt his boyfriend, but because of his reaction. But the detective's laughing didn't last long, for he could just stop himself from letting out a small cry as John's hand started moving over his thigh. So slow, Sherlock was convinced his boyfriend was simply teasing him. And so he was, for John loved the muffled sounds Sherlock made when he tried not to moan too loudly. But at one point Sherlock couldn't keep it any longer and an intense 'Oh God, John!' escaped from his mouth. The sound of Sherlock's hoarse, loud voice echoed through John's brain and made him smile and shiver at the same time. Sherlock's cheeks turned bright red, and he was glad John didn't notice. He immediately decided to take his revenge.

He brushed the doctor's cheeks with his long, pale fingers and pulled away for a few seconds to stare at his face. Sherlock bent forward and his warm lips touched John's even warmer skin. He heard John sigh as he kissed him on his jawline, while gently stroking his hair. He no longer leaned his body on his arm, since he had moved it to John's back, so John now felt the entire weight of the detective on top of him. He loved the feeling of Sherlock's shoulders touching his, the movements his chest made every time he breathed in. When the detective moved his head forward even further, while kissing John's ear, he shifted his weight and leaned on John's right shoulder with his own. He moved a little further to his right, half of his body still leaning on John, the other half leaning on the couch. John didn't realise what Sherlock had in mind, since the doctor was completely focused on Sherlock's lips, now gently biting his ear. Only when Sherlock whispered the soft 'I will have my revenge, doctor Watson', John realised what was going on. By then however, Sherlock's hand had already left John's chest and was slowly moving down. John gasped as the detective's fingers reached the skin just above the beginning of his trousers. With his fingertips Sherlock traced John's body just at the edge of his jeans, and Sherlock chuckled quietly. He pulled away from John's neck to see the face of the doctor, he was biting his own lip and his eyes were closed shut. Sherlock smiled and leaned in, and kissed the shorter man again. John was forced to open his mouth a little, and as he did so, a short moan was muffled against Sherlock's lips. The detective was now stroking John's inner thigh. 'Sherlock…' His name was followed by a few other words, but Sherlock didn't catch them. 'Quiet,' he ordered in between two kisses. When his lips let go of John's, the doctor muttered, 'I would be, if you would st…' But Sherlock kissed him again, before he could finish his sentence. The detective moved his other hand to John's face, stroking it gently as he continued their kiss. Then he lowered his head, and John immediately felt his hot breath brush past his ear. The doctor unconsciously leaned his head back a bit, inviting Sherlock to kiss his neck. The detective took his time, and felt John's body tense a bit more whenever his mouth got closer to the shorter man's neck. In the meantime, Sherlock was still rubbing John's leg, causing him to gasp again. Sherlock laughed, before he pressed his lips next to John's ear.

John had done his very best to not respond to Sherlock's fingers, still touching his thigh, but he was forced to his limits now. He felt Sherlock's lips move down his neck, getting closer to his shoulder every second, while he stroked John's face with the back of his hand. John bit his lip again, making sure no sounds escaped him, but as he felt Sherlock's chin touch his collarbone he couldn't help but moan loudly. The combination of Sherlock rubbing his leg, stroking his face and kissing his lower neck was too much for him. 'I warned you,' Sherlock whispered teasingly. Then he pressed his lips against John's skin again. John muttered Sherlock's name repeatedly and let out a sigh when Sherlock pulled away, leaving John practically breathless.

The detective jumped up from the sofa, his eyes fixed on John and started pacing around his apartment. John stared at the ceiling for a while, thinking about what had happened so sudden and had ended just as quickly. He smiled, then chuckled and eventually blushed, three actions which didn't go unnoticed for Sherlock, so the detective asked; 'What's so amusing?'

'Oh, nothing,' he replied.

'Then what's so embarrassing?' Sherlock asked, referring to John's pink cheeks.

'It's just, the way you got up from the couch...'

Sherlock frowned, 'What's funny about that?'

John shook his head and finally sat up, 'Nothing. Nothing at all. You get up perfectly.'

'Perfectly fine.'

'Perfectly.'

Sherlock smiled when he understood what John had just said and walked back towards the sofa. 'Your turn,' he said.

John looked up at him and shrugged, 'My turn? My turn to do what?'

'Get up from the sofa, of course. We've got a festival to attend.'

John did as he was told, a broad grin on his face. Sherlock watched him and nodded approvingly. 'You get up perfectly fine.'

'Perfectly,' John corrected him.

'No.'

'But that's what I said…'

'About _me._ _You_, however,don't get up perfectly. You get up perfectly fine.'

John was about to say something insulting, but couldn't come up with anything. Sherlock kissed him and then muttered, 'Only joking.'

'Idiot.'

The men got dressed and put their coats on. As they left 221B Sherlock asked, 'What's so perfect about me getting up from a couch?'

'Are you seriously asking this?'

He nodded.

'It's the way you move, I suppose. Or your timing. Or… I don't know.'

'Yes you do! Come on, tell me.'

'Oh, shut up, Sherlock.'

**26. The Festival**

'He has definitely mocked us before!' John whispered angrily, referring to the cabby who had just asked them whether they thought 'Bach was a romantic musician'. Sherlock nodded. 'I know,' he said, for he had recognised the face of the driver as well. 'But I don't care… do you?' he whispered in the doctor's ear.

John thought about it for a moment, trying to ignore the shivers that Sherlock's warm breath caused. 'No, I don't. I couldn't care less.'  
'That's right,' Sherlock said, a bit louder. 'Let's go in.'

The two men walked up to the entrance of the huge Victorian building. Sherlock's eyes swept across the crowd. There were lots of different people; young couples on an experimental date, old couples, clearly fond of Bach's music, excursions, etcetera. Nothing that seemed suspicious.

'You brought your gun, I presume?' Sherlock muttered.

'I'll never forget it again,' John replied. The day at the warehouse still haunted him, he still had nightmares about them being either shot or burnt to death.

The entrance hall was huge, a marble staircase in the middle of it. People were still milling around, drinking coffee or tea, waiting for the orchestra to begin.

John and Sherlock walked around, trying to blend in – even though that wasn't really working, considering they were an international phenomenon, even more so after Sherlock's survival and their relationship. Some people noticed them, recognised them, but no one made a move to interrupt them.

They probably think we're on a date, John thought, and blushed.

Sherlock was trying to determine why the headquarters were in such a public space. No one is up there tonight, Sherlock thought. Well, Moran might be, since Moriarty is ordering him around anyway, telling him to try and kill us. Sherlock's hand protectively curled around John's waist, keeping his body close to his. John decided not to ask, for that would probably make Sherlock pull away.

They walked around for half an hour before everyone started to get up one group at a time, heading towards the now wide open doors across the hall. 'It's show time,' Sherlock muttered in John's ear, his arm still around his boyfriend. They followed the other half of the people who went upstairs, their places on the balcony which curved around the enormous concert hall.

'We're not actually going to listen to this,' Sherlock continued to whisper. 'While everyone is distracted, we will go and find Riot Army. I don't think anyone is there, but since Moran has been bumping into us a lot lately, it's best to be prepared…'

John nodded. He was vaguely afraid of running into Sebastian Moran again, and Moran meant danger, though he knew that danger excited him. He looked sideways at his tall boyfriend and grinned as he realised Sherlock excited him, as well. Sherlock and danger… John shivered and started to pace faster because of the rush that had already entered his brain.

Sherlock chuckled quietly to himself as he realised what had gotten John to move faster. 'Easy, doctor, we'll get there eventually.'

'Funny,' John said sarcastically. He felt strangely embarrassed about his eagerness for the rush of danger, and worried about what Sherlock would think of him. The danger-addict. He shook his head at the idiotic thought; Sherlock himself was addicted to his work, he wouldn't think any differently of him.

It was a long hallway, and there were multiple doors leading to the balcony. Some people went through the first, some through the others. Sherlock and John pretended to go through the last, but kept on walking when they passed it, making sure no one saw them.

When the orchestra started playing, they could still vaguely here it in the distance. 'Huh. Partita Number One,' Sherlock sighed. 'Lovely.'  
John frowned and again decided not to ask. The music made him uncomfortable as they were walking through the brightly lit hallways. It was barely noticeable but very present, just like Moriarty was.

'What else are they going to do at this Bach festival?' John asked in a whisper, feeling the need to make conversation to get rid of the uncomfortable chilling feeling the silence penetrated by music gave him.

'Haven't the faintest,' Sherlock replied with the cool air of nonchalance. 'I suppose… Bach things.'

John sniggered, enjoying the tall detective's humour. 'Where do we have to go?' he asked, still actively aware of the almost-silence.

'To the left,' Sherlock answered him. He knew the doctor wasn't entirely comfortable and rubbed his back lightly, trying to make him feel better. John smiled when he felt Sherlock's touch, not even questioning how Sherlock knew where to go.

Sherlock did not know where to go, as it was, but he had a suspicion, and, as he recalled, his suspicions were usually right. He had seen several maps of the building in the entrance hall, for there was much more to do than just the few orchestras – though he hadn't paid any attention to those activities – and memorised it, analysing every room and determining the most logical and practical ones. He knew that the room where their next clue would be waiting would be like all the others they'd been to before; upstairs, spacious, so it would be possible for at least twenty people to get in, a quick escape route and clear of all activities. By knowing this, Sherlock had been able to eliminate at least twenty rooms, leaving only a couple for them to investigate. He had also constructed a route for them to follow, enabling them to check the few rooms as quickly as possible while having an escape plan at all times.

'Okay, John, this might be an empty room, but it might also be the room where we have to be. Be prepared at all times and please take care of  
yourself,' Sherlock whispered before he quickly pressed his lips to John's. 'Let's go.'

John nodded, flushing at the thought of Sherlock being worried about him. He got out his gun and waited for Sherlock to open the door.  
The door made a squeaky sound when it opened and it immediately became clear to Sherlock that this was not the right room. Their door should not squeak, for it should have been used lots of times and properly cared for. A door to the entrance of a criminal meeting should not make any noise, just in case some psychopath got annoyed by it and wrecked it, for example. Sherlock chuckled at his own little joke and shut the door again.

'What are you doing, that could have been – ' John stammered.

'It's not, believe me, I know.'

John sighed and followed the detective, who was already walking ahead. Their next stop would be just around the corner and Sherlock wanted to be ready, not losing his focus.

The room seemed to be empty, just like the other one, and so were the next two they checked. Sherlock was getting more annoyed by the second and it became apparent to John that he was agitated.

Eventually, they came past another door, a set of doors this time, with golden handles. 'This is it,' Sherlock murmured. 'John, on the count of three…'

Sherlock started counting, grabbing one door by the handle while John clasped the other. When he hit three, they both opened them and stepped inside, their guns pointed to nothing in particular. The room was big, though not as huge as the one where Sherlock had shot the lighting. Again, there was a stage, though it was not as big and flashy as the last one. It was more like a plateau, allowing the speaker to be seen properly. There were no rows of chairs, but they could be made; along the sides of the walls, plain, 'normal-looking' chairs were piled on to each other, making space in the centre of the room, where Sherlock and John stood.

The room was empty. Sherlock knew there was something there, though; the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, a chill went down his spine. His heart thumped in his chest as he saw a big screen behind the small platform, a projector above their heads. 'Oh, no…' he muttered, closing his eyes as he felt the locks on his brain crumble once again.

Jim Moriarty's face appeared on the screen, ten times as big as in real life. An amused grin played around his lips, his mad eyes filled with delight.  
'Oh, Sherlock, well done, you,' he said in a singsong voice. 'Congratulations on coming this far. But then, I never doubted your abilities. Is it time for our next clue already?' he asked himself, his voice changing as though he were talking to a child.

John looked to his left and saw to his horror that Sherlock was staring at the screen with wide eyes, breathing heavily, clenching his fist around his gun. John stepped around his boyfriend, facing him, and placed his hands on the taller man's cheeks. 'Sherlock – Sherlock! It's all right, he's not here. It's just a video message. Pay attention, he will be giving us clues. I'm here. I'm here…' he said soothingly, softly rubbing the detective's cheekbones.

'John,' Sherlock muttered. John's name gave him strength, and the ability to focus and think clearly. John was there, nothing was going to happen.  
'I think I'll want to chat a bit more before we get to the point,' Moriarty said, lowering his voice as he got to the end of the sentence, changing the tone like he changed his moods. 'But what shall we talk about… How about my mesmerising Riot Army? It is rather brilliant, isn't it…? But then again, I am brilliant.'

'He's not here…'

'I got Moran into this as well, fifteen years ago. He killed all the previous members for me. Like I said before, I don't like getting my hands dirty. He'll do all the dirty work for me, and I don't even have to pay him anymore. He thinks I enjoy his company! He thinks we work together… How adorable. He's like my own personal John.'

John gritted his teeth. He hated Moriarty's mind games. 'He's just messing with your head, Sherlock. Ignore him. Listen to him, but ignore his mind games. Focus on me.'

'They've both been in the army,' Moriarty mused. 'Though, I suppose, John loves you more than Moran admires me. And you love him back…' He clicked his tongue in a disapproving way. 'Such a basic mistake… Caring about ordinary people. Where did you go wrong…?'

'Get to the point,' Sherlock growled at the screen. But because it was a tape, Moriarty didn't stop and they were forced to listen.

'I always thought you knew better, Sherlock. I always thought your little friends meant nothing to you. They were a distraction… But I'm not wrong, am I? They _were _a distraction, in the beginning. All that mattered to you was the work… solving all those problems, solving the final problem. You did a wonderful job on that, I must say.'

John had trouble keeping himself in line. Moriarty knew he wasn't just playing with Sherlock's mind, but with John's as well. He thought it was just a funny little extra, making John feel like a nobody compared to Sherlock.

Sherlock tried to concentrate. Moriarty _was_ right. He had grown to care for John, whether he wanted to or not. He had grown to care for Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, as well, but only after he'd met John. Before, he just knew them, possibly even liked them, but never _really _cared. He lived for his work, and he still did, only he had someone else to live for as well.

That Moriarty was right about one thing, though, didn't mean he was right about everything. He was not better than him. He might be just as clever, just as smart or intelligent, he wasn't better.

'I will stop you,' Sherlock murmured, and John wondered whether he realised Moriarty couldn't hear them.

'I'm enjoying this,' Moriarty continued. 'I've told you, you are the best distraction for me. Killing you would be a loss on both sides. I am going to kill you, some day, again – like I said before. But I'm not giving up on our little game already, no, no, no… Every fairy tale needs a nice ending and I don't think we've reached ours yet. Do you?'

Sherlock stared at the screen, trying to figure out what his archenemy was saying. If he didn't want Sherlock dead yet, then why would he compel him into jumping off a building? Unless he knew that Sherlock would have known and tried to figure out a way that wouldn't get his head smashed in on the pavement. Maybe he didn't know, but had a suspicion, like Sherlock so often did.

'You're here now, at least that's something,' Moriarty said. 'Oh, the irony of life… One day, you don't realise you appreciate your life and then, suddenly – ' Moriarty imitated a descending whistle, as he once did so many months ago in their apartment, followed by a loud thud. 'Well, we survived. I suppose that's a sign,' he said sarcastically. 'Our game hasn't finished yet. There will be a winner soon, Sherlock. You tell me who it will be.'

'I…' Sherlock whispered. 'Just go away, now…'

John knew that Moriarty was too much for his boyfriend now, and hugged him, not caring what would happen next. He heard the projector shut itself down and wondered what kind of clue Moriarty had given them. To him, it seemed like a mocking message, but he was sure Sherlock must have picked up on something. 'Sherlock… It's okay, I'm here, I love you, it's okay...' John rubbed Sherlock's back, trying to comfort him. Sherlock was shaking, though it didn't seem as bad as it used to. John remembered one of Sherlock's worst attacks, the one he got in Joe's cell, and his eyes filled with tears when he remembered that Sherlock had been sick all night. Moriarty was not only bad for his mind, he affected his body, as well.

'Ah… look how sweet. We're not interrupting anything, I hope?' a mocking voice sneered behind John. 'Oh, no,' the doctor sighed desperately, before turning around and facing Sebastian Moran, at least ten people behind them, guns pointed their way.

* * *

'You really do choose the right moments to walk in, do you?' John asked, a frown on his face. He was willing to protect Sherlock, whatever it took. 'And who the hell are all these people?'

'This is Riot Army,' Moran said, gesturing to the fourteen men and women behind him. 'At least, the new Army. The ones I haven't killed off.'

'Yet,' John said. Moran let out a loud snigger, straightening the jacket of his tailored suit and taking a step towards them. 'I won't let you get away this time…'

'No, I see – you've brought fourteen people with you, because the last three times you tried, we got away.'

Moran scowled at him. John realised that before, Moran hadn't paid any attention to him, but now, when Sherlock was in his arms, trying to block Moriarty out and focus, Moran actually did notice him, and fear him. Moran now knew what the doctor could do and anxiously awaited his next move.

'Sherlock, how are we going to get out of this?' John whispered in Sherlock's ear.

'How many are there?' Sherlock whispered back, his eyes still shut tight.

'Fourteen, plus Moran. All carrying guns.'

'All right, cover me. Stand in front of me.' Sherlock was barely able to stand on his own, but John did as he was told. 'Play for time,' Sherlock muttered.

John had no idea what Sherlock was doing, but obliged nevertheless. Sherlock's plans almost always worked.

'What did Moriarty tell you this time?' John asked Moran, not even a hint of fear in his voice.

'What do you mean?' Moran grunted back. 'He told me to kill you.'

'No, he didn't,' John said. He was racking his brain, trying to figure out what Sherlock would say. 'Moriarty wants to kill us, eventually. He told us that more than once… But not like this,' John said with an angry grin, shaking his head, 'This is just a game, Moran, and you are just a pawn.'  
'We'll shoot you anyway. Dead is dead.' Moran's face showed nothing but loathing.

Sherlock was impressed with John; he was saying exactly what he needed to say. He didn't have time to watch in amazement, though. As soon as John started talking to Moran, he got his phone out his jacket pocket, dialling Lestrade's number. He would rather not contact him, he would rather find a way out himself, but since they were outnumbered they had no choice. He could not speak into the phone directly, though – at least someone would notice and they would be shot.

Sherlock knew when Lestrade had picked up the phone and started speaking. 'So, Moran, you brought an entire _army _this time? You probably knew you wouldn't be able to beat us on your own – quite correctly, I'm afraid…' Sherlock tried to make Lestrade understand what was happening and where they were. 'Why here?'

'What, "why here"?' Moran sneered.

'The headquarters. Why in this place, does Moriarty like Bach?'

John looked around, trying to find out what Sherlock was doing, and saw his phone in his hand. He quickly faced forward again, making sure no one saw it. He knew Sherlock was indirectly telling Lestrade what was happening.

'I don't know. He just thought it was a nice place, that's all. I do know one thing. You will not make it out alive this time.'

* * *

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was at his desk, sitting in his comfortable chair. He was going through some paperwork, his head in his hand. He sighed as he felt his eyes close, eyelids heavy with sleep. He reached for his coffee but found to his annoyance that the cup was empty.  
He started to get up, on his way to the nearby kitchen to make himself some more when his phone rung. He saw the number and noticed it was Sherlock. Why would Sherlock call him?

'Detective Inspector Lestrade,' he answered the phone. For a second, he didn't hear anything. Then, all of a sudden, he heard Sherlock's voice loud and clear.

'So, Moran, you brought an entire _army _this time? You probably knew you wouldn't be able to beat us on your own – quite correctly, I'm afraid…'  
Lestrade immediately knew something was wrong. Moran? Who was Moran? What did he mean with "army", the word on which he had clearly put a lot of emphasis? Lestrade frowned as he recalled Sherlock had mentioned "Riot Army", an anagram for Moriarty and probably the criminal organisation which had provided the bodies for their current investigation. Lestrade knew Sherlock would not have called if not absolutely important and decided to listen more intensely.

'Why here?' Sherlock continued.

'What, "why here"?' the voice of an unknown man growled.

'The headquarters. Why in this place, does Moriarty like Bach?'

Moriarty, Lestrade thought. So it was him. What does Bach have to do with anything? 'Donovan!' he called. The footsteps of the sergeant grew louder and eventually she came in, a questioning look on her face. 'Sherlock and John are in danger. They found the killer – or killers, I'm not sure – ' Lestrade stopped for a moment, not wanting to miss anything of importance. 'Find out where they are. He mentioned something about Bach.'

'The composer?' Donovan asked.

'I think so, yes. Now!' he yelled, after he'd heard the response of the man called Moran.

'I don't know. He just thought it was a nice place, that's all. I do know one thing. You will not make it out alive this time.'  
Lestrade was angry at Sherlock for going off on his own again, without contacting him. He was glad he did now, but he'd have liked a bit sooner.

'There's a Bach festival not far from here,' Donovan suggested, curious to know what was happening.

'Great, let's get going, we haven't got time to sit here and wait!' Lestrade bellowed, grabbing his coat as he went, screaming other police officers' names, telling them to follow him. Anderson looked at them in confusion but remained seated – Lestrade hadn't called his name.

* * *

'I highly doubt it,' Sherlock said, a sarcastic undertone in his voice.

'You shouldn't,' Moran said, raising his gun.

'He will shoot,' Sherlock whispered, his phone still in his left hand, his gun in his right. 'I'll distract them. You run.'  
John frowned in concern, looking up at his boyfriend. 'As long as you don't put yourself in danger,' he whispered.  
Sherlock nodded. Then, he looked up, staring at the far wall, pretending to see something that wasn't there. 'Jim!' he yelled. 'How nice of you to join us!'

Confused and slightly panicky, Moran turned around, expecting to see Moriarty on the platform. By the time he looked back, Sherlock's coat had just vanished around the door.

'Well, don't just stand there! Get after them!' he screamed.

* * *

It was a fifteen minute drive to the concert hall where the Bach festival was held, but the traffic was bad and Lestrade was getting more agitated by the minute.

He listened to the conversation on the phone, hoping that Sherlock would get himself and John out all right. When Moran screamed his last order, Lestrade knew that they were being followed and prayed they would get there in time.

He didn't bother to park neatly and got out of the car as fast as possible, Donovan on his heels and the rest of all the cops he had ordered with him. They stormed inside the building, scaring guests who were still lingering in the entrance hall.

'Spread out!' Lestrade called.

Half of the officers went upstairs and half of them went through the doors at the end of the hall, towards the music which was, ironically, just coming to a climax.

Lestrade followed the officers upstairs, while Donovan went with the other half. Lestrade knew they had to be quick, for the man called Moran had seemed quite dangerous.

When he saw how big the top floor was, his heart dropped. 'Look into every room!' he ordered, not taking any risks.  
They must be here somewhere, he thought.

* * *

John was sprinting through the hallways, Sherlock at his heels. He knew the precise way back, it was part of his experience in Afghanistan. Analyse every escape route.

'Lestrade is on his way,' Sherlock panted. 'I phoned him. I can hear his side of the conversation. He's in the car.'

'When will he be here?' John gasped back. 'We can't outrun them, Sherlock.'

'In about five minutes. Lestrade,' Sherlock called, holding the phone closer to his face. There was no answer. '_No_,' Sherlock muttered. 'We need to tell him where we are!'

'He'll find us. Just wait a second,' John told him, gasping for breath. He kept on running, even faster when he heard fifteen pairs of feet thump on the floor behind them. Unconsciously, he reached backwards and grabbed hold of Sherlock's wrist, pulling him along. There was no way he was going to lose him.

After a few minutes of running around the top floor, they were getting closer to the top of the huge marble staircase. They ran around a corner and almost collided with a couple of police officers, including Lestrade, but they didn't have time to stop. They kept on running and hoped Lestrade would follow them.

When Moran and the rest of Riot Army threatened to catch up with them, they heard several police officers scream orders to stop, but muffled sounds indicated that they were either knocked out or just run over.

Sherlock and John reached the top of the staircase and hurried down. Moran saw where they were going and decided not to wait any longer – he fired his gun.

'John,' Sherlock whispered. He pushed the shorter man forward, urging him to run faster. He knew that sooner or later, Moran would hit one of them; he had been in the army and knew how to handle a gun. He just had to get John out of the way.

'Get away, quickly!' he screamed. 'You're not going to get hurt again! I won't let that happen, I – '

'Sherlock!' John yelled as the detective gasped in pain and lost his footing. The tall man fell down the stairwell, hitting his head on the floor. His body became limp and his last grunt died down. 'John…'

'Sherlock!' John screamed again. He rushed to his boyfriend just as police officers surrounded the fifteen Riot Army members. John didn't pay any attention to that, though; Sherlock wasn't moving anymore.

* * *

**Well, well. I think this might be the first time Sherlock Holmes lost his footing. Why, and whether he is still alive (ahem) you will find out in the next chapters. The Smiley Murders are solved - but at what cost?  
Anyway, we'd love for you to review, even if you didn't like it (but _constructive _criticism is appreciated) and tell us what you think. We hope you enjoyed it and we'll post again soon ^^ Thanks for reading!**


	14. Chapters 27 and 28

**27. Ice**

Sherlock frowned. His head hurt.

What had happened?

Moran had been chasing them. They had been running. Guns had been fired. He had tried to get John out of the way when he had felt a sharp pain in his ankle. He remembered he had fallen down the stairs, but everything went black after that.

'Sherlock.'

Sherlock grunted and his right hand shot up to the side of his head, where the throbbing pain came from.

'Does it hurt?'

Sherlock opened his eyes and saw John's dark blue ones, filled with worry and love. Blinded by the brilliant light of the lamp next to the sofa on which he was lying down, he closed his eyes again, blinking wildly. He opened them after a while when they got adjusted to the light and once again looked up at John, who was still waiting for an answer.

'A little,' he croaked. John immediately reached beside him, grabbed a towel filled with ice and gently put it against his head. Sherlock gritted his teeth but was determined not to show how much his head hurt. When he settled down, started thinking clearly again, he suddenly noticed that his left ankle hurt, as well. Not as bad, but enough to be bothered by it.

'How are you feeling?' John asked. 'You were out for a few hours. It's already dark.'

'I'm fine,' Sherlock muttered. He suddenly realised that the sofa he was on was unfamiliar. 'Where are we?'  
'Lestrade's house,' John answered. 'He felt he owed us one. He lives closer to that concert hall than us, you know…'

Sherlock frowned. 'Tell me everything that happened,' he said.

'We were running down the stairs,' John began. 'Suddenly, I heard you gasp, and I thought you'd been hit by a bullet or something…' John stopped as he remembered how worried he'd been.

'I wasn't?' Sherlock asked.

'No.' Thank God, John added in his head.

'But then why does my ankle hurt? What else could have hit me there…?' Sherlock asked. 'No, wait – let me think. He probably ran out of bullets. The pain doesn't feel like a gunshot. He wouldn't have fired at my foot anyway…'

John smiled to himself. Sherlock needed to prove to himself that his mind was still functioning the way it should be, and deducing was to best way to do it.

'John, did he throw his gun at me?' Sherlock asked, lifting his leg to examine the bruise. He noticed that John had already removed his shoes and put a bandage around his ankle.

'Yes, he did,' John said with a beaming glow on his face. He loved Sherlock so much, he loved the way he ignored his pain and started analysing everything around him immediately. 'But if it hurts, I can put some ice on that, as well…'

'No, no, it's fine. Keep the ice at my head, it's… fine…' Sherlock sighed. 'What happened after that?'

'You stumbled, fell off the stairs. You hit your head and you blacked out. For a minute, I thought you were…' John shivered and took a deep breath. 'I checked your pulse and your breathing. You were fine… luckily,' he added in a whisper.

'But what about Moran?'

'Well… the police surrounded him and the rest of Riot Army. They've arrested his fourteen companions, but...'

'Oh, don't tell me he got away again…' Sherlock moaned.

John bit his lip and looked down. He had a guilty look on his face as he looked up again and nodded. 'It's my fault.'

'John, no! How could you say that? There were dozens of policemen around us, why is it your fault? How did he escape, anyway?'

'I don't know, exactly, I was too caught up with you – '

'He started shooting around himself like mad,' Lestrade's voice said. 'Surprise no one got hurt. Well, he killed one person…'

'Donovan?' Sherlock asked, a grin on his face. John giggled.

'No,' Lestrade said, trying to keep himself from sniggering as well. 'One of his own. We arrested them all – except the dead guy – but only after that Moran bloke got away.'

'So he started shooting and you had to duck. He created a diversion… Where did he go?'

'He ran the other way again, back the way they had come. We ran after him as soon as we realised he'd gone, but it was useless. He was gone.'

'Escape route,' Sherlock muttered.

'What?' Lestrade asked.

'Nothing,' Sherlock murmured. 'We did solve the case, though.'

'Yes,' Lestrade said, a bit absentmindedly. 'Listen, I've got to go, do some paperwork. Technically, I'm not allowed off now, I just wanted to get you here. You'll be all right here?'

'Yes, Greg, thank you.' John smiled, feeling Sherlock's forehead with his hand. Everything seemed all right. His head was swollen, but that should improve quickly because of the ice.

A silence fell when Lestrade closed the door behind him. Sherlock rested his head back on the pillows stuffed underneath his head and stretched his leg. He winced as he felt a sharp pain in his ankle.

John noticed and moved over to Sherlock's feet, taking his left foot in his hands and started rubbing it lightly. 'Well, you got what you wanted,' he murmured.

'What?' Sherlock asked, not completely focusing on his surroundings. He concentrated on John's warm hands rubbing his foot.

'You got injured this time, instead of me. Isn't that what you wanted?'

'It's what I rather wanted, John. Pay attention.'

John looked at Sherlock and saw that the detective had a little smile playing around his lips. John couldn't resist smiling as well, shifting his position so that Sherlock's feet rested on his lap and John was sitting on the sofa properly.

Lestrade's sofa was much bigger than theirs. It had a corner in it and it was twice as wide as theirs, which meant that they could easily lie down beside each other. John blushed as he realised this.

Leaving Sherlock's ankle alone, he moved his hands upwards, traced the lines of the man's legs. John moved closer to Sherlock, lying down beside him when he reached his upper legs.

'John, we are in Lestrade's house,' Sherlock muttered.

'So…?' John asked, pressing his lips to Sherlock's neck while stroking his buttocks with his left hand.

'So…' Sherlock had trouble keeping a straight face; John had really found his weak spot. Unable to find an answer, he whispered; 'I'm injured…'  
'We both know you don't care about that,' John said, his nose brushing against Sherlock's skin as he moved his lips upwards to the detective's ear, biting it softly.

Sherlock closed his eyes as he felt the familiar waves of pleasure and sensation roll over him, numbing him, tensing every muscle. He instantly forgot about the pain in his head and in his foot and sighed deeply, pressing his body closer to John's and brushed his open mouth to John's cheek. John shivered as he felt the familiar warm breath blow against his skin, leaving tingles and shudders he still couldn't control.

'John…' Sherlock panted when John moved his hands upwards again, tracing the edge of the man's trousers. He tugged the shirt out of his trousers – he was wearing his purple one – and slowly, gently moved his hands upwards. Rushing in excitement, fingers trembling, eager to see what was beneath the thin purple fabric, he started to unbutton the first button of Sherlock's shirt. When the first bit of Sherlock's bare chest appeared, he couldn't resist lowering his head and pressing a small kiss to the heated, exposed skin. He could feel the detective's heart race below his lips, grinned and moved his lips an inch towards Sherlock's neck, giving him another kiss when he opened the next button. Every time he opened a button, John moved his lips upwards, kissing his boyfriend before opening the next.

Just when Sherlock thought John would kiss him on the mouth, after he had opened the last button, John's hands shot up to Sherlock's chest and John moved his head, whispering in Sherlock's ear, 'You had your revenge. I want mine.'

'Well then, doctor Watson… I'm all yours.' Sherlock's soft, hoarse whisper came as a surprise to John, but that didn't stop him from gently biting Sherlock's earlobe, while stroking his bare chest with his right hand and lowering his left to Sherlock's trousers again. His fingers briefly curled around the edge of the trousers before softly rubbing Sherlock's thigh.

Feeling John's fingers tickle the skin just below the edge of his trousers, Sherlock had to bite his lip to prevent himself from crying out. Instead, a loud moan came out, followed by John's name.

'Oh, I am not done yet…' John's voice was soft, but the teasing undertone was obvious.

'What else do you have in store for me then, doctor?' Sherlock asked, trying to tease back. His whisper didn't sound as convincing, for his voice went higher with each word. John grinned and leaned forward, finally kissing him on the mouth, moving his hand to the inside of Sherlock's thigh. John felt Sherlock's muscles tense underneath his skin, his right hand still on the detective's chest. Sherlock's arms were around him, clasping the back of his jumper tightly. 'Just get on with it already,' Sherlock grunted as John's hand moved over to his buttocks again, in such a slow pace Sherlock was sure John was playing with him.

John was in fact playing with him. He loved the little sounds Sherlock made while trying to be quiet – John was sure Sherlock didn't even know he made them. They weren't grunts, moans, or whispers. They were high, squeaky noises. Sherlock made them while breathing in deeply, while keeping his lips pressed tight to each other to keep himself from moaning or crying out, but they were noises and that made John chuckle in delight.

John wanted to make Sherlock feel even more, he wanted the detective to cry out. He wanted to know for sure he was the only one who could make Sherlock Holmes cry out in pleasure.

He had been leaning on his right arm the whole time, but now he shifted position, lying half on top of Sherlock. He kissed the man intensely, one hand on the detective's face, stroking his cheekbones, playing with his hair, the other sliding down his bare chest, lingering at his waist, pulling him closer. Instead of going straight to Sherlock's trousers, John took a little detour around his bellybutton, softly tracing the small circle with his index finger. When he closed it, he went downwards again, his fingers again lingering around the edge of Sherlock's pants.

Sherlock was trying his hardest not to make any sounds, though he knew a few small moans escaped his lips now and then. It wasn't the sound John was looking for, though, so he continued with his little game. He left Sherlock's lower stomach for what it was and passed the edge of the trousers, rubbing his thighs a bit rougher than he initially intended to. He was still kissing Sherlock in the meantime, and every time the detective pulled away for just a quarter of an inch, a soft moan or grunt escaping from his lips, John smiled. 'Sherlock…' he groaned, trying to make the detective succumb to his touch.

'Nice try,' Sherlock whispered back, his voice more hoarse than John had ever heard. He didn't sound very convincing. John grinned, for he knew he was close.

John moved his face closer to Sherlock's neck, following the graceful line of his shoulder. He traced the straight line of the man's collar bone with his lips, leaving a trail of shivers for Sherlock.

Sherlock gritted his teeth as he felt John's hand move down his thigh, shift to the inside of it, rub upwards again, repeating the process as he went up and down his collar bone, as well. When John's hand curled around the back of his upper leg, he knew it was a lost competition. He knew that once John's hand started to move towards his weak spot, he wouldn't be able to keep himself from making loud noises. John knew it, too. He felt Sherlock's entire body tense as his hand made the slightest movement and he felt Sherlock's fingernails dig into his skin through the warm jumper. Finally, when John's hand reached Sherlock's buttocks again, Sherlock was forced to stop biting his lip and let out a small cry. 'Oh, God…' he moaned. 'John – oh, _John_…!'

John sniggered, his cheeks scarlet. He couldn't see Sherlock's face, but he knew that the detective's cheeks had turned red as well – or at least pink. John was pleased with himself; he had been able to make Sherlock give in.

'You're going to pay for this,' Sherlock growled.

John, who was still in his satisfied mood, softly pinched Sherlock's buttock, making the detective moan again. 'Stop it, John,' Sherlock said through clenched teeth, even though he didn't really mind.

'Make me.'

Sherlock grinned, his right hand moving from John's back to his own leg. He closed his fingers around John wrist and removed his hand, which was still stroking the back of his thigh provocatively. John was not resisting, he let Sherlock do whatever he wanted; he had already had his turn. Sherlock's hands on him felt good anyway, and he knew he would not be able to keep himself from making noises for long.

Sherlock's left hand stroked John's face as he gently pushed him over, so that the doctor was no longer on his back and Sherlock lay down on top of him. His big hands and their long, pale fingers could cover the side of John's face completely, and he breathed deeply before he brushed their lips together, knowing what his breath did to John. He moved his right hand over John's leg, making him shiver, and his hand crept under the man's jumper, which he had pulled over his button-down shirt that morning. He kissed John gently, while brushing his left hand down John's face, tracing the same lines as his other hand had a second before. At the same time Sherlock's right hand followed the path to John's legs again, his left hand slid under the warm jumper, continuing where he had left off.

He tickled John's chest while softly rubbing the man's thigh. John couldn't suppress his moans anymore and unconsciously pressed his body closer to Sherlock's, kissing him with more enthusiasm, hoping that his boyfriend would do the same.

Sherlock felt John's excitement grow and teasingly bit his lip. 'Don't interfere, Hamish,' he ordered.

'Then hurry up, _Mister Holmes_,' John whispered back, arching his back when Sherlock spread his hand across his chest. 'Hurry up? Oh, I don't think so,' Sherlock muttered.

He moved his hands downwards, and found the edge of John's jumper. With one swift movement he pulled it over John's head, threw it on the ground, and left the doctor in just his shirt. Just as John had done, Sherlock started to fiddle with the buttons teasingly. With every button he opened he leaned in a little further, breathing heavily into John's neck. After the first four were open, and the bigger part of John's bare chest was already showing, Sherlock's lips finally brushed the doctor's neck. John gasped as he felt their warm touch, sending a shiver through his spine. Sherlock chuckled before unbuttoning the rest of John's shirt. He felt the doctor's strong heartbeat, and saw how his chest moved up and down, muscles tensing occasionally at but the slightest touch. He traced the man's collarbones with his fingers, until he felt an uneven part in the doctor's skin. Sherlock immediately knew what it was. The scar was one of the traces Afghanistan had left on his boyfriend. It was right there, on the front of his left shoulder, where a bullet had hit him. Sherlock shivered at the thought of a wounded John, but was fascinated by the scar. He realised he had never noticed it before. He, Sherlock Holmes, had overlooked something. John really did distract him. The detective softly stroked the scar with his fingertips, before lowering his head and brushing his lips against it. John smiled and brushed his hand through Sherlock's black curls. Sherlock sighed quietly and moved his lips past John's collarbone, back up to the other man's neck. When his lips touched John's earlobe, he muttered; 'That's a pretty scar you've got there, soldier Watson.'

The doctor grunted in reply, biting his lip, not willing to make any louder noises now Sherlock was stroking his leg again. Sherlock felt how tense the man beneath him was, how he seemed to hold his breath, clenched fists pressed against the taller man's back. The detective moved his hand down John's chest again. He stopped around his waist and curled his long fingers around him. He rubbed his side and softly tickled it, which caused John's arms to cover in goose bumps. Sherlock, annoyed with John's lack of sounds, kissed his lips again, this time with more enthusiasm. Sherlock laughed quietly as John reacted instantly. One of the doctor's hands shot up to the back of the detective's head, holding it tightly, pulling him even closer. Sherlock wouldn't have been able to pull back, would he have tried to do so. He didn't though, instead he carefully bit John's lower lip. A soft sound, closest to a growl, escaped from the shorter man's mouth. Sherlock laughed for a few seconds but then continued their kiss. As Sherlock moved his hand from his inner thigh to the outside of his leg, John shivered again and he couldn't help but blush when Sherlock started stroking it. 'Sherlock…'

John knew what the detective was doing and, between two kisses, took a deep breath. He arched his back even further, clenched one hand into a fist, dug the fingers of his other into Sherlock's chest and accidently bit Sherlock's lip a little harder than he had meant to. But none of his actions stopped the detective from moving his hand further upwards, and he chuckled deviously as he touched John's buttocks. John's teeth let go of Sherlock's lip and he gasped for air. 'Oh God, Sherlock!' Sherlock smiled, definitely satisfied with his new victory, but decided that he wasn't entirely done when he felt John's body relax again. He kept stroking John's buttocks, while his other hand played with the doctor's hair. He moved his lips across the doctor's jawline and John immediately tensed at every breath that blew past him. Sherlock breathed extra heavily, knowing that John would react to that, before he pressed his lips in the lower part of his neck.

Sherlock's hand moved upwards, and he started rubbing John's back. His fingers tracing some of the ex-army doctor's muscles. John shivered at the tickling feeling and gave in entirely. 'Sherlock,' he panted heavily, 'Sherlock…'

Sherlock muttered John's name in response and, no longer playing a game, let him stroke his inner thigh again. Both men had given up on keeping quiet and loud moans and groans escaped from their mouths. 'God, I love you,' John muttered, but his words were immediately followed by a grunt as Sherlock had stopped rubbing his back and was already moving his hand back down again. 'I love you too,' Sherlock answered in his hoarse voice, panting between every word.

Just as John pulled Sherlock's face closer to his own again, the detective heard a key turn in the lock of the front door. 'John,' he muttered hastily while moving away as quick as possible. But the doctor, who hadn't heard anything, pulled him down with his strong arms and kissed him again. 'John!' Sherlock said in a penetrating voice, 'It's Lestrade, quick!' It was only then when John heard the door slam and Greg's voice echoed through the hallway; 'I'm back!'

'Oh Jesus,' John muttered quickly, getting up, searching the floor for his jumper. 'Under the sofa!' Sherlock hissed, closing the buttons on his shirt as fast as possible.

'Where? Where?' John asked with a hint of panic in his voice.

Sherlock dropped himself to the floor too, scanning it while John nervously fiddled with the buttons on his own shirt, trying to close them. 'Here! It's here!' Sherlock exclaimed, picking up John's jumper from the corner of the room.

'You said it was under the sofa!' John accused him. Sherlock rolled his eyes and hissed a soft, 'Well I was wrong. Happy?'

A small smile played around the doctor's lips as he nodded, but then he quickly added, 'Lie down!'

'What?'

Before Sherlock knew what was going on, John pushed him over and the detective fell back onto the couch. John quickly sat down next to him and put his hand on his head. Just then the door to the living room swung open and Lestrade came in. 'How is he?' he whispered to John, 'Is he sleeping?'

John shook his head, 'No,' he replied, 'no, he's wide awake.'

Sherlock chuckled, opened his eyes and looked at the DI. 'Yes, I'm feeling much better, actually.'

John suppressed his laughter and nodded in agreement. Greg Lestrade raised his eyebrow, finding it odd that Sherlock had recovered so quickly, but then shrugged and decided not to ask any questions. 'D'you want more tea? Or coffee?' He nodded towards a Starbucks cup he held in his hand. 'There's a shop down the street, I could get you some if you like.'

But John and Sherlock shook their heads simultaneously. As Sherlock sat up he said, 'No, but thank you.'

'And not just for offering coffee,' John continued his boyfriend's sentence, 'Thank you for everything you did for us today.' Sherlock frowned and nodded hesitantly, not sure what else to say or do. It had never been easy for him to express his feelings, he only could to John. Luckily Lestrade knew that saying he was grateful was a hard thing to do for Sherlock, so he just smiled at his friend, knowing what he meant.

John was the first to get up from the sofa, and helped Sherlock up while he thanked Lestrade again. 'We should go home, though. Sherlock's got some serious thinking to do,' John told him, 'So, we better leave right away.'

Lestrade nodded understandably and walked along as they left the living room. 'If you want I could give you a lift,' he offered, but John politely declined and pulled Sherlock along.

Just before Lestrade closed the door behind them, Sherlock couldn't resist showing off – just a little. 'I hope you and your date have fun tonight. Though, I'm afraid she won't be staying long…'

Sherlock smiled as he saw John's eyes widen in amazement. He loved it when he impressed John, and he didn't mind Lestrade's raised eyebrows either. 'What do you mean, she won't be staying long?' he called after the duo, who were already halfway the street. John heard Sherlock's low rumble, but all the detective said was a short and reluctant, 'Evening!'

The two men burst out laughing when they heard Lestrade's front door slam shut. 'Did you have to?' John chuckled, 'Now you've got him all nervous.'

Sherlock shrugged, 'Who cares?'

'He does, probably.'

The detective chuckled and put his arm around his boyfriend. They scanned the streets for cabs, while they walked the pavement in silence. It was getting rather late; John checked the clock on his phone to find that it was nearly eight o'clock. It wasn't entirely dark yet, but the moon shone brightly and, for a few seconds, John had the feeling that there was nothing and no one else in the world except for him and Sherlock. His thoughts were brutally interrupted by a honking car and John realised that in London, they would never be alone. He sniggered at the thought and then shook his head. Sherlock signalled a cab over and in no time they were on their way home to 221B.

* * *

'So, do you have any idea of what Moriarty wants us to do next?'

Sherlock shrugged, 'No, I don't,' he admitted. He closed his eyes, shielding himself from the cars and the houses that flashed by. He needed to think, the faster he found out what Moriarty's next move would be, the better. They were still playing his game.

_Every fairy tale needs a nice ending and I don't think we've reached ours yet._

What was his next move going to be? According to Moriarty the game wasn't over yet, but then what was the rest of his plan?

_There's no why in James Moriarty…_

'What's the point?' Sherlock muttered, not fully aware of the fact that he was thinking out loud. 'What's the point…?'

'The point in what?' John had been staring at Sherlock for a while, making sure that he was alright. When Sherlock didn't answer his question, the doctor turned his head and looked outside the window. He recognised the streets they drove through, and even though he couldn't name them, he knew they'd be home soon.

Five minutes later, Sherlock opened his eyes. 'When will he stop, John?'

John didn't know. 'Someday.'

_Don't be obvious. I'm going to kill you anyway, someday... _

'He won't,' Sherlock answered his own question, 'He won't stop before he's killed me, but until then, he'll torture me as much as possible.'

_I will burn the heart out of you!_

'I won't let that happen,' John said in a determined voice, 'You'll find out what he's up to next, and we'll track him down. We'll find him. We'll destroy him, okay?' The doctor put his arm around his boyfriend and looked at him. Sherlock shivered but then nodded. 'It's going to be okay,' John whispered, 'I promise.'

* * *

Ten minutes later, they stood outside their flat. Sherlock was searching the pockets of his coat for his keys, while he held John close. The doctor cursed the weather, for it had started to rain the second they had got out of the cab, and he was getting cold. He was glad he had Sherlock to keep him warm. 'Hurry up, Sherlock,' John urged, nearly jumping up and down to keep himself warm.

'I'm absolutely certain I put them in here,' said Sherlock, but then he took his empty hands out of his pockets and shrugged. 'I lost them.'

John shook his head, 'You've probably just left them in our flat, like I did.' But Sherlock frowned and knew John was wrong.

'We'll just ask Mrs Hudson to let us in, alright?' John suggested, and Sherlock couldn't do much else but nod and follow his boyfriend to the neighbours' house across the street.

* * *

Mrs Norris opened the door and raised an eyebrow. 'Is Mrs Hudson still with you?' John asked politely. The elderly woman nodded and, without saying anything, went back inside. A minute or so later she returned, followed by a tired-looking Mrs Hudson. 'What are you boys doing here?' she asked confused.

'We forgot our keys. Could you let us in, please?'

'Oh, you two are hopeless,' she said but then followed them outside. As they crossed the street again, she started chatting excitedly. 'You know, there was this lovely article about you two in the papers today. Have you read it?'

'No, fortunately not,' John said briskly.

Mrs Hudson shrugged, 'Well, if you have time…'

'Then we will,' Sherlock interfered. He didn't want John to get himself all worked up about the press again, so he thought it for the best to just drop the subject.

'I really don't understand you sometimes, Sherlock,' Mrs Hudson continued with a tiny smile on her face, 'You're a brilliant detective, no case is too difficult for you, but the easiest things slip your mind. A bloody genius you are, forgetting all about your keys...'

If it had been anyone else talking to him, Sherlock would've replied that he hadn't 'forgotten to bring his keys', that he'd lost them, that someone might've stolen them, but he wouldn't say that to Mrs Hudson. Besides, what did it even matter?

They reached the front door of 221B again and Mrs Hudson let them in. John stepped over the threshold without hesitation and gestured Sherlock to follow him, but the detective said; 'I'll be right there, just let me take Mrs Hudson back to Mrs Norris.'

'Oh, Sherlock, it's only just across the street. Surely I'll manage on my own,' Mrs Hudson said, but both John and Sherlock could tell by the look on her face that she would actually like Sherlock to drop her off. John nodded, their landlady wasn't the youngest anymore, she could use a little help. Besides, John thought, Sherlock hardly does anything friendly for anyone, it might do him some good, too.

He watched his boyfriend take Mrs Hudson's arm and walk away. John couldn't help but smile at the thought of Sherlock becoming a little more human every day.

* * *

John entered his living room, but froze right away. Sitting in Sherlock's chair was none other than criminal mastermind James Moriarty. He didn't even bother to look up when John came in, but seemed entirely focused on the knife in his hands.

**28. The master**

'Hello Johnnyboy,' Moriarty said in a voice that was unmistakeably meant to sound bored, 'I'd expected your dear Sherlock here too. But no matter, no matter, it's nice to have some alone time. Just you, and I…' He smiled, but there was nothing friendly to it. John shivered, but quickly recovered from his shock and closed the door to the living room behind him. 'Why are you here?'

'Why does anyone do anything?' Moriarty sang, still not taking his eyes of his knife. He was cleaning his nails with it, scratching out the dirt that didn't match the rest of his styled appearance. He wore a grey suit that fit him perfectly, and a black tie with a skull print on it. John didn't reply, not sure whether Moriarty was even waiting for an answer to his question.

'So, where's your Sherlock then, Johnnyboy?' Moriarty asked. John shrugged, then rolled his eyes, trying to come across as reluctant as possible. He feared Moriarty, but obviously didn't want to show. 'Let me tell you something,' the consulting criminal continued, 'I think he knows I'm here. I think he knows he sent you right into my arms. And do you know what the worst part is?' Finally Moriarty looked up and he smiled when he saw the confused look on John's face. 'He knows I will harm you.'

John shook his head. 'He has no idea that you're here.' The doctor didn't know whether it was too soon, whether he should wait longer but he pulled his gun and aimed for Moriarty's head. The criminal didn't seem impressed at all and even shrugged, 'Go ahead, Johnnyboy, shoot me. You'll regret it, I'm sure.'

John removed the safety pin from his weapon, but hesitated. 'Why?'

'Of all people, John, I had expected you to understand,' Jim explained, 'You always cover Sherlock's back, don't you? If something happens to him, they have to deal with you. If someone threatens to harm him, they'll have to pass you.' Moriarty raised his eyebrows and his eyes narrowed. 'Come on, John, you may not be a genius, but I'm sure you can put one and two together.'

'Moran,' John whispered as he realised what Moriarty meant.

'He's out there, and if you shoot me, I'm sure he'll harm your precious detective.'

He spoke the words as if he was telling John a story, instead of threatening him.

John closed his eyes and sighed, annoyed with himself, and then dropped his gun to the floor. 'What do you want?' he asked through gritted teeth.

The consulting criminal got up from the chair and took a step towards John. John hesitated, but didn't move. He watched Jim play with the knife's blade, tracing its blunt side with his fingertips. Jim moved his neck, as if to relax his muscles before he spoke the words that made John tremble with fear. 'I want to destroy Sherlock and you, Johnnyboy, are going to help me with that.'

* * *

After dropping Mrs Hudson off at her friend from across the street, Sherlock entered his flat. Satisfied with himself for doing a thing that John would call 'nice', he walked up the stairs. The door to the living room was closed, which was odd, considering that they never closed it, unless they didn't want anyone to enter. Sherlock immediately knew something was wrong. He knew there was nothing else he could do but go inside, and he feared what he would find.

John was standing in the middle of the living room and looked directly at Sherlock, his eyes expressing both fear and anger. 'I'm so sorry,' he muttered. Behind him stood Jim Moriarty, a small, almost pitiful, smile on his face. If he hadn't held a knife against John's throat, he would've seemed innocent and harmless to anyone who didn't know him. 'John!' Sherlock gasped as he noticed the knife.

'Oh dear,' Jim spoke quietly, 'I think I found your weak spot. I think I found your heart. And like I promised, I will burn it.'

Sherlock's brain worked faster than ever. He had to save John, but didn't know how. He couldn't use his gun, for if he'd shoot, Moriarty would use his knife. He couldn't show his fear, his doubts. All he knew was that he had to keep talking to Moriarty in order to keep John alive. 'What's your plan, Jim?' Sherlock asked, trying to remain calm, but he heard his own voice tremble.

'Don't tell me you don't know, Sherlock. Come on, you've probably figured it out ages ago.'

'You want to destroy me.'

'Good…'

'You want to harm me as much as you can, before killing me off.'

'Very good.'

'Why go to so much trouble, though?'

Moriarty smiled and tried to imitate Sherlock as he said, 'Because I am bored.'

'But why not just play chess…? Why kill people?'

'BECAUSE I CAN!' Moriarty shouted angrily.

John gasped for breath as Moriarty's grip around his knife tightened and the blade pressed deeper into his skin. If he would move, the knife would slice right through his skin. This didn't go unnoticed by Sherlock, who knew he had to do something to get John safe. 'I thought you didn't like getting your hands dirty,' he said, pointing towards the knife.

Jim Moriarty shrugged. 'People change and sometimes one needs to think outside the box. Dare to be different. I dare you, Sherlock, I dare you to be different from me. I dare you to change.'

Sherlock didn't reply, and just stared at his archenemy. He knew that every word the consulting criminal spoke, would haunt him forever. Just like all the other conversations they had had wouldn't leave his mind.

_You're me. You're me!_

'I am different from you. There's no need for change,' Sherlock replied, but his words didn't have the effect he had wanted them to have. Moriarty rolled his eyes and turned to John. 'What do you think, John?'

John didn't reply, but immediately regretted it. 'I'm holding a knife against your throat, and you refuse to answer me? Do you think that's clever?' Jim asked with a faked hint of disapproval in his voice. 'I'll give you a second chance, though.' He moved his knife away from John's neck and the doctor sighed in relief. But, when he felt the cold steel press against his cheek, he quickly shut his eyes, afraid of the upcoming pain.

'No!' Sherlock shouted, but his voice didn't stop Moriarty from making a small cut in John's face. The doctor didn't stir, didn't even make a sound when the blade pierced his skin. When Sherlock saw the blood dripping down his boyfriend's face, he couldn't help himself but get his gun out. He aimed for Moriarty's chest.

Jim immediately reacted to this by pressing his knife against John's throat again. In a cheerful voice he sang, 'I will kill him, if you kill me.'

'You'll kill him anyway,' said Sherlock angrily.

Moriarty's face went rigid. 'I will.'

Sherlock slowly moved his finger over to the trigger of his gun, ready to shoot. John shot him a panicking look.

'Oh Sherlock, would you really?' Jim asked. 'Would you kill two men?'

'I'll be killing only one tonight.'

'Like I said: if you kill me, I kill John. If you kill me, you kill him.'

'Then what other options do I have?' Sherlock shouted, 'If I kill you, you kill him. If I don't do anything, you'll still kill him.'

'No!' Jim sighed impatiently, 'If you kill me, _you_ kill him! Don't you understand? John will die either way.'

Sherlock had to let the words sink in. John would die, no matter what he did. Moriarty was keeping his word. He would burn the heart out of him, and he would do so by killing John.

There had to be a way, though. There had to be a way to save him. While Sherlock was racing through his mind, Moriarty had turned to John again. 'Oh, look at that. He's out of ideas. Shall we make this easier for him?'

'What do you mean?' John said slowly, buying Sherlock extra time to think.

'I'll simply kill you now, then Sherlock can stop thinking. Let's put your detective out of his misery, shall we?'

John took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. 'No, don't! WAIT!' he heard Sherlock cry, 'Wait!'

'Remember, Sherlock, this is my game,' Moriarty teased, 'You can't change the rules.'

But Sherlock could, and he knew it. Without hesitation he twisted his hand around and pointed his gun at himself. 'If you kill him, you kill me.'

'So?' Moriarty asked, but Sherlock saw he was hesitating, for he had loosened his grip around the knife. The consulting criminal didn't want to lose his only distraction.

'Sherlock? What are you doing?' John asked in a high, panicky voice. Moriarty pressed his knife even closer to John's throat, the point already digging into the skin. One drop of blood appeared and dripped down John's neck, as did multiple tears. 'Sherlock… I can't lose you again. Don't do this, Sherlock. I beg you…'

Moriarty's face had twisted into the face of a madman – his true form. That's what he really was; no disguises, no lies. Just the face of a man with a twisted mind.

'SO?' he repeated, screaming as his mood changed again.

'If you kill him, I will kill myself. And you are so bored… You want distraction, and I am exactly that – a distraction. I am the best distraction for you, you said so multiple times. Kill him, and lose your only distraction from the utterly boring world, a world full of idiots, a world in which you don't belong…'

'Who says I don't belong?' Moriarty said with a grin on his face. 'If I don't, then you don't, either. We are just alike, you and I…'

'Except I'm boring,' Sherlock finished his sentence. 'I'm on the side of the angels…'

'Indeed,' Moriarty said in his singsong voice. 'Fine, then. I won't kill your adorable little boyfriend. You're right, you are. You are a distraction for me.'

'Our game hasn't ended yet…' Sherlock whispered. 'Every fairy tale needs a nice ending.'

'I thought this was a rather nice one, to be honest,' Moriarty mused, his knife still on John's throat. More blood had welled up and started dripping on his shirt, followed by tears.

John was not convinced that Moriarty wouldn't kill him. He didn't trust the consulting criminal at all. He continued to look at Sherlock, his blue eyes wide open, telling Sherlock he loved him before Moriarty sliced his throat. His vision blurred when he thought about his boyfriend the consulting detective, whom he loved so much. He thought about their short time together and how he had to go already. 'I love you, Sherlock,' he whispered, ignoring Moriarty's threats. 'I always will.'

'John. I will get you out of this. You're not going to die tonight, do you hear me?' Sherlock almost screamed. His plan must work. He had no other options.

'But one of us is, Sherlock. It can't be you.'

Sherlock looked at John, trying to tell him it was all right, but Jim interrupted them with a sweet tone in his voice.

'Ah, how sweet. Ordinary Sherlock, entranced by _love_…' Jim Moriarty looked around, his eyes lingering on the sofa. 'I would have expected it from you, soldier Watson, but from Sherlock Holmes…? Ah, well… we all make mistakes…'

'You said you wouldn't kill him. Remove that knife, or I'll shoot myself!' Sherlock growled.

'And how are you sure I will kill Johnnyboy after that? How are you sure I won't let him live, suffering every day, because his boyfriend has killed himself? Love complicates things, doesn't it?'

'It does,' Sherlock answered. 'But it also clarifies. I love John. Mock me, if you like, but nothing is as liberating as loving someone. My life never had true meaning before I met John. Solving crimes was all I did…' Sherlock's voice trailed off and John suddenly realised the detective had had a rough life, even though he might not have known before. 'Analysing crime scenes. Comparing samples under the microscope. Finding murderers…'

'Sherlock…'

'Then you came,' Sherlock said, now speaking directly to John, almost having forgotten about Moriarty. 'You made it easier. I had someone to do it with – you taught me the joys of life, John. You taught me to love and I can never thank you enough for it.'

Sherlock and John looked into each other's eyes, telling each other that no matter the ending, they would always love each other and think of the other. Their moment was interrupted by Moriarty, mimicking throwing up. 'Oh, please, Sherlock, I thought you were better than this, I'm disappointed in you…'

'Then be disappointed, Jim, I don't care. Now let him go.'

'Fine,' Moriarty said with a sneer. He removed his hands from John's throat, digging the point of the blade in his skin just before he let go. John didn't show his pain, but his hand shot up to his throat, examining the wound. It wasn't lethal; it was just a gift from Moriarty – a scar he would always carry.  
'I will burn you some other way, then,' the consulting criminal said. His gaze shifted to the door behind Sherlock and his face lit up. 'Seb, how nice of you to join us.'

Sherlock frowned, not recognising the name. He shut his eyes as he realised "Seb" must be short for Sebastian. He turned around and faced the huge, blond man who had injured him a few hours before.

'How's the foot?' he growled. 'And your head?'

'It's fine,' Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes. 'Nothing lethal. Although that was what you were going for, wasn't it?'

'Shut up!' Moran bellowed, taking a step towards the consulting detective. 'If I really wanted to kill you, don't you think I wouldn't already have done so?'

'Oh, I see,' Sherlock said. 'Moriarty never did tell you to kill me. Every time we met you, you came running after us, shooting, but you never actually meant to kill… Were you too afraid of Jim? Did you want to kill us, but you were not allowed? Is that why you were so upset all the time? Because your  
boss didn't _let you_…?'

'I said, shut up!' Moran yelled. He raised his gun, pointing it at Sherlock. John reacted instinctively and walked up to the duo, standing in between the two. 'Don't!' he pleaded.

'Move it!' Moran growled.

'Don't hurt him – ' John became angry with the huge, threatening man.

'I SAID – MOVE IT!'

Moran was really pissed off at this point, and the arm in which he was holding his gun swung upwards. Before John had any idea what was going on, Moran had already smacked the back of his gun to his head and everything went black before he collapsed to the floor.

'John!' Sherlock gasped. He tried to kneel beside his boyfriend, but Moran pointed his gun at his head and Sherlock was forced to stay put.

'I told you how this ends,' Moriarty repeated from a long time ago. 'I will destroy you. But I will do it slowly, for as you already pointed out, I cannot destroy my only distraction so soon. This game is far from over, Sherlock. It has only just begun.'

'What do you care?' Sherlock shouted desperately.

'I don't,' Moriarty whispered. 'That's my advantage.'

'All the advantages are on your side. This is your game,' Sherlock said.

'You're learning rather quickly,' Moriarty said with a fake hint of praise in his voice. 'It is my game. And you know it. And you know you must play by my rules, and by my rules only.'

'Even though there's nothing in it for me,' Sherlock said. 'But I have no choice…'

'You have figured this out ages ago,' Moriarty said, tilting his head, as if he tried to assess the situation. He moved his neck again and directly looked at Sherlock.

'I want you dead, Sherlock. Someday. Until then, I want to play the game…'

'And make me suffer while playing.'

'Well, yes, of course, how would it be fun otherwise?'

Sherlock didn't reply. The man was mad, completely out of it.

'Just trying to have some fun…' Moriarty sang, contorting his voice.

'You're insane,' Sherlock whispered. _John…  
_  
'If I weren't insane, do you think I would do all this? DO YOU?'

Again, Sherlock remained silent. He would never admit it, the thought would never cross his mind, but he was terrified of James Moriarty. He realised then, that John had been right. _  
_

_John…  
_  
He was more afraid of the thought of Moriarty, of what he would be able to do, of what he would be able to do to John. Every time Moriarty had invaded his mind, he had lost it because all the possibilities, all the possible endings of the game had crossed his mind. And every time, Moriarty had won.

'I can stop you. And I will,' Sherlock said quietly. His gun was still in his hand, even though it hang by his side, unused. He would not be able to use it, for there was no way out.

'No, you won't. Haven't you seen?' Moriarty said, about to lose his temper again. 'You can't stop me, you just can't. I am too much for you. You've seen it – ' he looked down at the body of John. Unconscious as Moran's feet. 'You've made a big mistake. You've opened up your heart. Next time, use your head.'

He started moving forwards, smiling at Sherlock. Anyone who didn't know him would probably say it was a charming smile, possibly even nice. But Sherlock did know him, hated him, and above all – feared him.

'We're only just beginning, Sherlock. Don't be scared. Playing my game is just like playing chess; multiple outcomes. Different tactics. You will need to use your brain. Leave your heart out of it, or I _will _burn it.'

Sherlock stayed quiet. He listened to what his archenemy said, standing still in the middle of the living room, his boyfriend on the floor.

'This will definitely not be the last we see of each other, I promise. Now, shall we finish the game? Or begin? It's your call. See you later… Sherlock Holmes…'

He stepped around the lifeless body of John, grinned at Sherlock and made a signal for Moran to stop pointing his gun at Sherlock and follow him. The door closed behind them and Sherlock was left alone in the quiet flat.

* * *

**I suppose we're suckers for cliffhangers. Or tension-builders, whatever. Anyway, this was one of the most fun chapters to write, for both of us. Somehow, Moriarty's personality(-ies?) is just so much fun to put into words. :D Let us know what you think of these two chapters and we hope to upload again soon :D Thank you all!**


	15. Chapters 29 and 30

**29. Headaches**

_John was floating. It felt as if his whole body was made out of air, he was gliding through the sky. He didn't know where to go. He desperately tried to find Sherlock, but he couldn't find him. Something inside him broke, ripped, when he remembered Sherlock wasn't with him anymore. They had been ripped apart, one of them alive and one of them dead._

_Which one am I? John thought. Which one am I?_

* * *

'Sherlock!' John gasped, opening his eyes in a flash. A massive head ache immediately forced him to close his eyes again, waves of pain pressing behind his eyeballs, all coming together at a spot just above his left temple. He grunted and lay down again, realising he was in Sherlock's bed.  
'John,' he heard Sherlock say in his deep, beautiful voice. 'How are you feeling?'

John opened his eyes again, looking at Sherlock, who was sitting next to him on the bed, his shoes off, a bowl of water and a cloth in his hands. 'Does it hurt?' he asked next, remembering how John had taken care of him.

'Where's Moriarty?' John asked. 'He was here, just moments ago, and then Moran came…'

'He knocked you out,' Sherlock said, hurt in his eyes. 'They got away. I was outnumbered. I couldn't stop them…' It obviously bothered the detective; he was frowning and he clenched his fists. 'If only I hadn't been so _stupid_…'

'Come on, Sherlock, we couldn't have done anything. He broke into our flat, what were we supposed to have done?'  
Sherlock shook his head. 'I don't know…'

'And, to answer your question, my head does hurt a bit.'  
Sherlock immediately jumped up, shifting his position so he faced John. He brought the wetted cloth close to John's face and gently put it against his head, tilting his head and a worried frown on his face. John couldn't help but notice Sherlock's extraordinarily beautiful bright green eyes, with their dilated pupils. 'I thought I was going to die.'

Sherlock's eyes saddened, and John felt Sherlock's other hand on his face as well. 'For a second, I thought so too. It broke my heart, John, having to say goodbye. I never want to ever again.'  
'

You… you said "it broke my heart"… you, Sherlock Holmes?'  
'Well… it was what it felt like. It felt like someone – no, not someone, Moriarty – was crushing my heart, squeezing it until all the life seeped out. I literally felt heart-broken.'

'Well, you can imagine how I felt when I saw you on that pavement…' John mumbled, putting his hands on Sherlock's back.  
'No, I can't, John. I've never seen you dead. And I didn't think you were dead for months. I still feel guilty, you know.'

'Don't be.'  
They stared into each other's eyes for over five minutes, just looking at each other. John never got used to Sherlock's face, his beautiful characteristic cheekbones, his bright green eyes, which always contained a hint of a sparkle, his soft, dark curls, his beautifully shaped lips, his utterly perfect nose. Without thinking about it, John moved his hands upwards and traced the lines of Sherlock's face, his index finger lingering around his lips. His gaze shifted to Sherlock's lips as well, and before he knew it, Sherlock had leaned forward and started kissing him, very slowly and gently. He wanted to make sure he wouldn't hurt his head, so he cradled his right hand around it, covering it, protecting it.

'What time is it?' John asked between to tentative kisses.

'Three AM,' Sherlock replied. He breathed in John's face for a moment, softly brushing his lips against John's for a second time. He leaned forward, still cradling John's head, gently pushing him on his back. 'How's your head?' he asked, wanting to know how much John could handle.

'It's okay. It hurts a little, but – ' John stopped in the middle of his sentence when Sherlock pulled away from him, reaching for the cloth again. 'Do you want some ice?' he asked, examining the bruise. 'I've held ice on there since Moriarty and Moran left, but if it hurts…'

'Sherlock, I'm fine. You held ice on here for six hours?' John asked incredulously, feeling a wave of gratitude and love for his boyfriend. Sherlock nodded. 'It was the least I could do,' he replied in a whisper.

'How's _your_ head?' John asked. Sherlock had had a nasty fall, and he recalled there had been quite a big bump on there.

'It's fine. The swelling has already receded. It's you I worry about…'

'Don't worry about me,' John said, reaching forward. He grabbed hold of Sherlock's shirt and pulled him forward, continuing where they had left off, only a bit more enthusiastic.

Sherlock grinned and searched for more. He gently bit John's lower lip, lowering himself on top of him. 'I love you,' he whispered in the doctor's ear. John got goose bumps all over his body but couldn't reply, for Sherlock had already pressed his lips to his neck and all he could do was gasp. He felt Sherlock's hands move down his face to his chest, where he started to fiddle with the buttons of his shirt – he had already pulled off his jumper before he had gotten him into the bed – and Sherlock grinned, pleased he was first to unbutton the other man's shirt. John realised this, too, and soon both men were in a competition of wanting to open their boyfriend's shirt before the other. Sherlock, having started one button earlier, laughed out loud in victory as he reached John's last button, putting his arms around the man, one hand on his chest, one on his back. John placed both his hands on Sherlock's chest, but he knew it was of no use – Sherlock was the dominant one, now.

Sherlock traced the lines of John's muscles, extremely intrigued by them. He had never truly noticed them, how the muscles moved beneath his skin, how they enabled John to walk, lift, even breathe. His fingers moved upwards towards the dip in between his collar bones. He leaned closer, breathing heavily, and kissed the spot while following John's collar bone with his hand to his left shoulder. He already knew what was coming, but was still surprised when he felt the uneven bit of skin. Still fascinated, he moved his head and looked at the circular scar. Once, a few years ago, it had been an open wound, bleeding heavily, killing John had it not been for the other doctor who was with him. Sherlock leaned closer, breathing on the scar. He repeatedly traced the outline of the scar with his index finger, while muttering; 'It must have been horrible for you. I never thought of that…' John could only grunt and moan, for Sherlock brushed his lips against the scar, his right hand gliding down John's chest to his newfound weak spot. 'I'm not giving in this soon,' he said through clenched teeth. 'You'll have to try your hardest, detective.'  
'I haven't even started yet, soldier. Or do you prefer "doctor"?'

'Whichever you prefer,' John gasped; Sherlock's lips had found his scar again.

'I like "soldier". The idea of you, in the army, saving people… but mostly just _this_,' Sherlock said, his hand brushing over John's chest, 'now _that _I like…'  
'I like this too,' John murmured, stroking Sherlock's side. Not only his face was beautiful and extraordinary, his body was, too. There was a muscularity to it that made John excited, but he was also tall and skinny, something that John had come to love. John suddenly felt that he couldn't stop himself from moaning loudly when Sherlock's hand tentatively – or just slowly to tease him – brushed down his buttocks to the inside of his thighs, rubbing upwards and downwards in a steady rhythm, while he pressed kisses to his chest, shoulder and neck in that same rhythm. John was lying breathlessly underneath Sherlock, who was just rubbing upwards when his lips touched his scar again and his other hand started playing with his hair. John didn't care anymore and, feeling the tension rise, cried out. 'Sherlock! God, Sherlock… Oh, Jesus… _Sherlock_…!' He arched his back, trying to get as close to Sherlock as possible, but Sherlock was not done yet. The consulting detective grinned when he heard John's cry, and decided to continue, knowing that the more he did, the more John would want revenge. And he wanted John to take his revenge. He couldn't keep himself from whispering something.

'Well then, Hamish… I thought you wouldn't give in so soon.'  
All John could bring out was a long, quiet, lingering moan, still feeling the almost ecstatic state he'd been in. 'I thought so, too.'**  
**'This is way too much fun…' Sherlock muttered, repeating the process of rubbing John's leg. He knew he had broken John's restrains and couldn't keep a grin off his face every time he heard John pant, 'Sherlock… Oh, Sherlock…'

'John, I love you.'

John opened his eyes, still gasping for breath, and looked into those of his boyfriend, hovering an inch above him. Sherlock's eyes expressed such a deep feeling of love, it was almost uncharacteristic. It made John feel as if his heart melted and he closed his eyes again, hungry for the feel and taste of Sherlock's lips on his. He put his hands on the back of Sherlock's head, grabbing his dark curls and pulling him closer, using his strong arms. Sherlock knew his muscles were tense and put one hand on John's arm, enjoying the strong, firm army-trained muscles. He traced the lines and kissed John harder than before, pressing his body tight to John's, pushing his head in the pillows. He heard John's muffled grunt as he gently stroked the side of John's head, careful around the big bruise. He felt John's body tense at the touch and a groan of pain escaped his lips. Sherlock immediately stopped right in the middle of his kiss, pulling back. He sat up next to John, eyes full of concern.  
'Are you all right? Should we do this right now?' he asked, softly rubbing John's right hand.

'I don't want to stop,' John panted, a smile on his face.

'But your head hurts,' Sherlock whispered, resisting the urge to lay down on top of John again. 'You're in pain.'

'Well,' John sighed reluctantly, 'maybe I want to rest for a few minutes. But this isn't over yet,' he added with a devious glow in his eyes.  
Sherlock smiled back and got up, searching for the ice which he had put away half an hour before John woke up. He returned shortly after that, lay down next to John, put his arm around him and carefully put the ice to his boyfriend's head. John gritted his teeth but relaxed as he felt Sherlock's hand softly rubbing his still bare chest. Sherlock's hand moved over to his war wound and he started to play with it, tickle it, trace the outline of it. 'I can't believe I never really noticed it before,' Sherlock mused. 'I knew it was there, though I never looked for it.' Sherlock frowned. 'I don't like the thought of an injured you.'

'I'm injured right now,' John said, one hand on Sherlock's left hand, which was holding the ice to his head, and the other on Sherlock's right hand, still rubbing his scar.

'And I don't like it,' Sherlock muttered. 'Moran had no reason to knock you out like that.'

'And he had no reason to throw his gun at you. Are you sure your head is okay?'

Sherlock thought about it for a moment. 'I still feel it, but it doesn't hurt as bad as before. I only fell on it; you got hit with an iron gun. You'll have to stay in bed for a day, just to make sure you don't have a concussion. I will have to wake you every hour to check on you… is that all right?'

'Sherlock, I'm a doctor, I know what you need to do. And checking on me is fine… I don't mind you waking me every hour…' John turned his head, looked at his boyfriend while his right hand closed around Sherlock's, still on his shoulder. 'I think it's time for my turn,' he whispered, and before Sherlock could stop him – if he had wanted to – John moved over and pushed Sherlock on his back, opening the last button on his shirt. He recalled he hadn't had time to unbutton all of them before when Sherlock had beaten him and put his arms around him. John grinned as Sherlock lifted his arms in surrender, palms up, and rested them on the pillow beside his head. The movement pulled his purple shirt tight around his arms, exposing his bare chest. John shivered in delight when he saw Sherlock's muscles beneath his pale skin, and reached down to kiss Sherlock's neck, his hands running all over Sherlock's chest. 'John…' Sherlock sighed as he felt John's lips against his throat. Hearing the soft whisper, John pressed his lips even harder to the skin, his hands moving upwards in one smooth movement. He reached the detective's collar bones and traced the lines to Sherlock's shoulders, his hands sliding underneath the purple fabric while gently pulling them off Sherlock's arms. Sherlock was not cooperating; he wasn't doing anything. He just lay there, eyes closed, letting John do whatever he wanted, savouring the feelings he invoked in him. He knew that he couldn't keep his cool appearance up for long, but was determined to keep it as long as possible. It was always a game between them, of trying to keep themselves from responding to the other as much as possible. They were never able to hold themselves longer than five minutes, and soon Sherlock made his first high, squeaky noise. John chuckled in victory, his fingers curling around Sherlock's waist before sliding down, tickling the skin on the edge of his pants. His fingertips briefly crept under the trousers, making Sherlock shiver heavily. He pulled them back just before Sherlock was about to lose control, and started to softly rub Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock's entire body tensed under John's careful touch, and John saw that Sherlock's fists clenched his pillow tightly. Sherlock was holding his breath and kept his eyes shut tight, concentrating on keeping quiet.

John grinned, biting his lip to prevent himself from laughing out loud and disturbing Sherlock's concentration. He lowered himself on top of Sherlock's body again, chests touching. John could feel Sherlock's heartbeat go into frenzy mode the moment he curled his fingers around the back of his thigh and knew Sherlock knew what was coming. Sherlock couldn't hold his breath any longer and sighed deeply, shivering as John's hand crept upwards, teasingly slow. 'You know, for someone who's just been hit on the head, doctor Watson, you know what you're doing…' he whispered, barely able to keep himself from moaning loudly.  
'Soldier,' John grunted back.

'What?' came Sherlock's response. His mind was on something else; his breathing came more rapidly and his fists were still clenched, whitening the skin on the knuckles.

'Soldier Watson for you. And that's an order,' John replied in a low grunt. '_Mister _Sherlock Holmes…'

Sherlock chuckled, though it sounded more as a nervous giggle. 'Fine, _soldier _Watson…' His voice went higher with each word and ended in a deep growl; it was the closest thing to a moan he wanted to make. John giggled and breathed in Sherlock's neck, knowing how Sherlock's breath made him feel. John's hand finally reached Sherlock's buttocks and he started stroking them gently, pressing his lips to Sherlock's neck. He heard Sherlock draw in a small breath when his other hand stroked the inside of his thigh. John's kisses in his neck and both his hands on his thigh and buttocks proved to be too much for Sherlock's self-control. He almost ripped the pillows apart when he clasped them tightly and moaned loudly. 'John… Oh, _God_, John…!' He threw his head back, exposing his tense neck, and breathed heavily, trying to keep himself from crying out. John was determined, however, and continued with just a bit more enthusiasm. 'Sherlock,' he grunted, kissing the other man on his jaw. 'John,' Sherlock replied, no longer caring about what sounds he made. When he felt John's teeth softly biting his earlobe, his hands still stroking his legs, he didn't give a damn anymore and gave in completely. 'Jesus Christ – _John_!'

John laughed out loud at his success and collapsed on top of Sherlock, suddenly feeling very tired. He lay across Sherlock's chest, eyes closed, enjoying the way Sherlock's chest went up and down rapidly.

Sherlock had closed his eyes as well, enjoying John's weight on top of him. He finally moved his arms – he discovered his fists were still clenched – and put them around John, rubbing his arms. 'I'll wake you in an hour,' he whispered and pulled the sheets over both of them. John didn't reply, for he was already drifting off, lying on his stomach across Sherlock's chest, listening to the steady heartbeat of the man he could call his boyfriend.

* * *

'John.'

John opened his eyes for what seemed like the hundredth time that night – like Sherlock had promised, he had woken him every hour to check up on him. This time, it was different. The room was not dark anymore, like it had been the previous times. A streak of light shone through the gap between the curtains and he could hear the faint honking of cars in the background. It was morning.

'Sherlock?' John asked. He had heard his boyfriend, but couldn't see him. Then, he realised he was on his left side, and he lay with his back to the detective.  
'Here, sleepyhead,' Sherlock chuckled and stroked John's hair. John shivered in delight; Sherlock's body was all around him. Sherlock lay on his left side as well, his chest touching John's back, his legs following the same line. His right arm was around him while his left continued to play with his hair. John smiled and whispered, 'Good morning, Sherlock.'

'Good morning, John. How's your head now?'

He had asked that question every time he had woken him, and every time John had noticed a hint of fear in the detective's eyes. He really was concerned.  
'It's much better, thank you.'

'All right, then. What's your name?'

John sighed. 'John Hamish Watson.'

'Where are we?'

'221B Baker Street.'

'Who am I?'

John rolled his eyes. 'We've been through this over and over. I know who you are, Sherlock.'

'Who am I?' Sherlock repeated, not taking his eyes off John.

John sighed, but grinned as an idea popped into his head. 'Sherlock Holmes, the hottest detective on earth…'

Sherlock frowned in surprise, and blushed as John's words came through to him. 'You think so?'

'Of course.'

'Well, then I think you might have hit your head a bit harder than you should have – '

'Oh, come here,' John sniggered, turning around and facing his boyfriend. He stretched out his arms and hugged Sherlock, who whispered in his ear, 'And you're the hottest army doctor on earth.'

'I love you,' John whispered back.

'I love you, too.'

They held each other for half an hour or so before Sherlock let go. John started to follow him, but Sherlock pushed him back into the pillows. 'No, you stay here. You've hit your head quite hard, there's no way I'm letting you out of bed so soon.'  
'But Sherlock, I feel fine…'

'I don't care. I'll make you some breakfast.' Sherlock turned around and walked out of the room, followed by a pair of eyes, looking at him as he gracefully opened the door and walked towards the kitchen.

John rested his head back on the pillow. It was useless. Once Sherlock had put his mind to something, there was no stopping him. It did not even occur to John that Sherlock had hit his own head just a few hours earlier, but he seemed totally fine.

Sherlock returned moments later, carrying a tray with toast, butter and jam. He had made some coffee as well.  
'Thank you,' John said and kissed Sherlock softly on the mouth once he sat down next to him again. 'Aren't you having some?'

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and shook his head.

'You've been up all night and you've hit your head. For all I know, _you_ could have a concussion. Now eat.' John stared at Sherlock, who was looking back reluctantly. 'That's an order, Sherlock.'

At this, Sherlock chuckled. He shook his head in amusement, but did as John had ordered. Slowly, he bit off a tiny piece of toast, and smiled at his boyfriend, who was watching him carefully. Sherlock swallowed his bite and ate some more, leaving John satisfied and while he picked up a piece of toast for himself.  
They ate in silence, staring at the wall and curtains opposite them, John's head on Sherlock's shoulder. 'Please tell me I don't have to stay here all day,' John muttered when they had finished. 'I don't know what I would do without you.'

'Who says I'll leave?' Sherlock said, eyebrows raised. His low voice had a hint of surprise in it. 'You could be sick. I'm not going anywhere.'  
'Oh,' John said. 'But… I thought you'd want to think, or something. I'd only be a holdup.'  
Sherlock shook his head. 'Not true, John. I can think perfectly fine with you around.'

'All right then, suit yourself,' John shrugged, getting the newspaper from the tray Sherlock had brought with him. John frowned as he realised it was the newspaper Mrs Hudson had told them about. He looked sideways, narrowed his eyes as a small grin appeared on Sherlock's face.  
'Come on, I was curious. Mrs Hudson called it "lovely".'

'Yes, but not everything Mrs Hudson calls "lovely" actually is lovely. Not according to me,' John grumbled, though he did open the newspaper and looked for the article. He found it soon enough; there was a picture of them, holding hands while walking through Hyde Park. He grunted when he read the title. 'God, that's so cheesy,' he muttered. Sherlock chuckled and started reading.

**Holmes and Watson; a relationship no one can break**

_Since his return of the dead, Sherlock Holmes has not been seen separated from his ever loyal companion doctor John Watson. It was no surprise to some, though it was a shock to all of us, to find that they have been involved in a homosexual relationship together since the day Holmes re-entered their apartment at Baker Street.  
Rumour has it that Watson had not visited the place every day since Holmes "died". Some say he had been depressed for months. 'He wouldn't come out of his room in the beginning,' Mrs Hudson, their landlady, revealed. 'All he did was stare at the wall. He didn't want to talk. It was horrible.'_

_But since Holmes returned, both of the crime-solving duo seem happier. Witnesses say that they always walk together and 'when they look at each other, their faces seem to light up and the love they have for each other is obvious,' Hudson stated. Their relationship, however, is not withholding them from solving any more crimes. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, from Scotland Yard, who has worked closely with "Hat-man and Robin", says the following; 'Sherlock and John are still helping us out, occasionally. I don't think their, ahm… relationship is holding them back.'  
_

_Their latest case, mostly referred to as "the Smiley Murders", links them back to Sherlock Holmes' archenemy James Moriarty, who had attempted to steal the crown jewels almost a year ago and was the cause of Holmes' fall off St. Bartholomew's hospital roof. It has been revealed that the identity under which Moriarty had hidden after the trial, actor Richard Brook, was a fake one and had all been set up to lead to Sherlock Holmes' suicide. People were led to believe that Holmes had killed himself because "Richard Brook" had proved him to be a fake.  
Holmes, however, saw through the plan of Moriarty and found a way to fake his own death. If he did not jump, Holmes later revealed, Moriarty would have made sure Watson would be shot. Which leaves us to question; did they already feel something for each other all those months ago? Or was it just their strong friendship, evolving into something more?  
_

_All we know is that they are together now and that they are madly in love. What more can we expect from the relationship of the world's favourite consulting detective and his faithful doctor? We can only guess; we will have to wait and see._

'She hasn't really improved on her writing, has she?' Sherlock said, pointing at the small letters below the article.

'Kitty Riley? Wasn't she the one who wrote about Richard Brook?' John asked incredulously. 'God, she must be feeling terrible.'

Sherlock shrugged. 'I do know why Mrs Hudson called it "lovely",' he grinned, pointing at Mrs Hudson's name on the paper. 'I didn't know she had been talking to the press,' he mused.

'Neither did I,' John muttered, scanning the article again. Sherlock swore he heard John mumble the words "homosexual" and "madly in love" and chuckled. John would never really be able to let the press go.

John threw away the paper and leaned against Sherlock's arm. 'I'm bored,' he muttered.

'Me too,' Sherlock sighed. They both stared at the ceiling, thinking about random things.

'We'll need a new case,' John murmured against Sherlock's arm. 'We're not that good at sitting around.'

'Did I get you addicted to crimes, John?' Sherlock laughed. 'Remember when I used to freak out and you weren't happy with that?'

'I remember,' John said. He chuckled at the memory of Sherlock, frantically searching for his cigarettes, prepared to do almost anything in exchange for them.

'Perhaps we should interview some new potential clients again,' he added after a deep sigh.

'Perhaps we should,' Sherlock agreed.

A long silence fell, only interrupted by their breathing. Eventually, John couldn't take it anymore and broke it.

'I really want to get out of bed, Sherlock.'

'After all the trouble I've gone through to get you into it?'

John blushed and giggled nervously, picking up on the accidental double meaning.

'What's wrong?' Sherlock asked, a frown on his face.

'Nothing,' John said. 'You got me into bed, that's all.'

'Oh,' Sherlock muttered when he realised what he had said. His cheeks turned pink. 'Then, I guess it's time to get you out.'

John sighed. 'Finally.'

He followed his boyfriend to the edge of the bed, but realised with scarlet cheeks that his shirt was still on the floor. Sherlock grinned and picked it up, watched John put it on before he stretched out his hand and gently helped John up. He put his arms around him and whispered in his ear, 'Are you all right? Does it hurt?' He gently felt John's head and noticed the swelling had died down a bit.

'I'm fine, Sherlock. It only hurts a little, but it'd be weird if it didn't. _Sherlock_,' he added accusingly. 'It would be weird if it didn't hurt. Your head hurts, doesn't it?'  
Sherlock frowned, reluctant to admit it, but John was right; his head did hurt. His head hurt like mad. 'A bit.'

'You should have slept,' John said. He sighed. 'All right, let's just go to the living room. We need to talk about yesterday, anyway.'

They walked out Sherlock's bedroom together, hand in hand, both with a painful headache they did not want to admit they had. John sighed in disapproval when he saw that the kitchen table was covered in science equipment, papers, and files. He was kind of sorry they never had a proper meal at that table, but usually it was just him who ate; Sherlock joined him every three days or so, and then he didn't eat much. John knew Sherlock's body was actually healthy – it was skinny, but not too skinny – and that he must take more snacks than he let on.

They sat down in their chairs, not taking their eyes off each other. Sherlock's gaze went down from John's eyes to his left cheek, to his neck, where the cuts Moriarty had made were still visible. Sherlock remembered cleaning them the night before and how relieved he was when the cut in the neck wasn't that deep.

They simultaneously looked at the place where Moriarty had stood the night before and both shivered. 'What did he say before I walked in, John? It might be of importance,' Sherlock muttered.

John racked his brain. 'He told me you knew I was here. He told me you sent me up here by myself, knowing he'd hurt me. I didn't believe him and pulled my gun.'  
'Why didn't you shoot?' Sherlock said, more hurt by John's words than he showed. He was glad John hadn't believed Moriarty – he would never harm John in any way.  
'Because of Moran,' John whispered. 'I'd have shot him if it wasn't for Moran out there, about to shoot you.'

Sherlock nodded. That was indeed Moriarty's kind of approach. 'What did he do next?'

'He told me he wanted to destroy you. And he told me he wanted me to help him with that.'

'And then I came in and saw the blade of his knife pressed against your throat. "I think I've found your heart", he said. "And, like I promised, I will burn it…" But I found a hole in his plan,' Sherlock muttered, more to himself than to John. 'If he'd kill you, I'd kill myself. And then we'd both lose.'

John shuddered, still unhappy with the fact he had to say goodbye. He had been convinced he was going to die.

'He let you go. Moran came in and hit you…' Sherlock's lip twitched in an angry way. 'Moriarty said the game wasn't going to end anytime soon. "It has only just begun…"'

'What does that mean?'

'It means that it isn't over yet.'

**30. Interfering**

Lestrade dropped by several times that day, asking how Sherlock was. He genuinely seemed concerned, which made John realise Greg was a very loyal friend.  
'Hey, John, what's that on your cheek? And your neck?' he asked suddenly.

John blushed and covered the cuts with his hand. 'Nothing,' he muttered. 'Shaving cut.'

Sherlock was barely able to keep himself from mentioning that he used an electric shaver instead of a blade, but remembered just in time Lestrade didn't have to know about their recent visit.

Lestrade shrugged, eyeing the bruise on John's head suspiciously – because of Sherlock's dark curls, his wound was not as easily visible. 'Have you both hit your head now or something?'

John's eyes widened in panic and he opened his mouth, but he couldn't think of anything to say. Luckily, Sherlock did.

'That's an old bruise, Lestrade. We've been up to much more than you know,' he said with a grin.

'Oh. _Oh_,' Lestrade said when he realised what Sherlock was saying. He suddenly seemed very uncomfortable. 'Well, I better – '

'Have you read the paper from yesterday?' John interrupted him. 'They mentioned you and Mrs Hudson. Is there something you should tell us?'

'Oh, that…' Lestrade muttered. 'Listen, I didn't tell them anything that wasn't true. I hope you don't mind…'

Both Sherlock and John smiled at Lestrade, who seemed very happy to leave the apartment. They burst out laughing when they heard the front door slam.

'Sherlock, you can be so mean at times,' John chuckled. Sherlock shrugged, and the huge smile on his face made John's heart leap. He loved a happy Sherlock. 'But I still love you,' he added in a whisper.

'John,' Sherlock sighed, a delighted sparkle in his eyes. 'I love you, too.'

They took a few steps toward each other and embraced, and John buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder, while Sherlock rested his head on John's. They never wanted to let go, but they knew that sooner or later, they would have to. They were right; the doorbell rang moments later.

'Is he back already? He seemed so eager to leave,' John muttered.  
'No, it's not Lestrade,' Sherlock said with a beaming glow on his face. 'It's a client.'

* * *

Moments later, a young woman sat down on the sofa, nervously looking up at Sherlock and John. John sat in his chair, the laptop on his lap, while Sherlock was pacing the apartment excitedly. John smiled to himself but quickly turned his attention to the woman.

'What's your name?' he asked.  
'Meredith,' the girl answered. Her blue eyes nervously followed the tall detective walking from one end of the living room to the other.  
'Tell us about your problem,' John said, also looking up at Sherlock.  
'It's my dad,' Meredith whispered. She shook her head and pulled herself together. 'He disappeared, a few days ago. The police tried to find him, but they could not. They gave up on him after two days.'  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed deeply. 'Boring,' he muttered softly, so that only John could hear him. John shot him a look that said, 'at least let her finish'.  
'Why come to us now?' John asked next.  
'I'm sure you can find him – it's very important. Not only is he my dad, I… I gave him something for safekeeping and I need it back,' she whispered, leaning in as if she didn't want the walls to hear her.  
'What did you give him, then?' Sherlock asked, suddenly interested. John looked at him, this time telling him, 'I told you so'.  
'I can't tell you,' Meredith said, blushing.  
'I can't help you if you can't tell me,' Sherlock said, obviously annoyed by the young woman.  
Meredith took a deep breath and nodded. 'Of course,' she said. She frowned when she continued in a quiet voice, 'I can't tell you everything, though. For now, all I can say is that it's an important document he's carrying.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance. 'Look, I can't work, if I don't have all the details!'

'I've been told you solve the most difficult cases, Mr Holmes, and that you do so for fun. Now, if you don't want this case, then that's fine with me. I'm sure someone else can help me.'

Sherlock sniggered and shook his head. 'I think not.'

At that point John's mobile phone rang. Beaming on the screen was the name of the only man who'd ask him for help, instead of asking Sherlock. _Mycroft Holmes._

'I'm sorry,' John said as he got up and walked towards the kitchen, where he answered the call. 'Mycroft?' he asked immediately.

'Keep your voice down. I don't want my brother to overhear us,' Mycroft's voice replied.

John sighed, 'What are you calling me for?'

'I need you to take the case.'

'What case?' John asked, wondering if the other Holmes could possibly know of Meredith visiting them and asking them for council.

'The stolen document is of governmental importance. We need it back as soon as possible. I need Sherlock to take the case.'

'Then why don't you call him yourself?'

'You know why. He won't listen to me.' John knew Mycroft was right and once again wondered what had ever come between the brothers. Now, however, was not the time to think about that again, or even ask Mycroft about it. He bit his lip in hesitation and remained quiet for a couple more seconds, when eventually he said, 'Okay.'

'Thank you, John,' Mycroft said in soft voice, 'Make sure he doesn't find out he's doing me a favour.'

'I'm not going to lie to him!'

'You better.'

Before John could reply Mycroft hung up the phone. John frowned and held the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, trying to figure out what to do. Obviously, he couldn't lie to Sherlock. But, in order to help Mycroft, he decided to keep it quiet for a while. Surely, Sherlock would figure it out soon enough. And besides, as long as the case was interesting enough for him, he'd help his brother, right?

'Who was that?' Sherlock asked immediately when John re-entered the living room.

John couldn't think of anyone else so he muttered, 'Mike, asked whether I'd join him for a game of pool this evening. Told him no, obviously.' He shot a meaningful look at Sherlock, who immediately got what he meant and smiled. Then he turned to look at Meredith again, who still hadn't told him what kind of document she'd lost. 'It doesn't matter what it is about! It really doesn't!'

Sherlock sighed, 'I won't help you, then.'

This is where John started to interfere. 'We can always try, can't we, Sherlock?' But Sherlock shook his head.

'Remember,' said John, 'We don't need to know anything about these documents. We're looking for Meredith's lost father, we find the documents as soon as we find him.'

'No, we won't!' Sherlock exclaimed, 'We'll find his dead body, somewhere in a rubbish bin, and the documents will be stolen.'

Meredith burst out in tears at his last words. 'H-h-he can't be dead! How can you know that?' she cried. John shot Sherlock a warning look that said 'whatever you do, don't answer that question.' The detective understood and he remained quiet.

'Don't worry,' John whispered to Meredith as he put a comforting arm around her, 'We'll do whatever it takes to find him. Won't we, Sherlock?' He looked up at the detective, knowing that he wouldn't be able to decline now. Sherlock nodded hesitantly.

John helped Meredith get up and escorted her towards the door. 'We'll be in touch,' Sherlock called from across the room. Meredith, still in tears, could only bring out a quiet 'thank you'.

When they entered the hallway and were out of earshot, John muttered, 'Mycroft called me. I know that the documents are of importance to the government,' John said but then, as he saw Meredith's face he quickly added, 'Don't worry, I won't tell Sherlock. He'll help you out.' She seemed relieved and, through her tears, muttered, 'Thank you, really.'

John nodded. 'It's fine. Now, I do need you to tell me how you got hold of the documents.'

'My father's a colleague of Mister Holmes, and I'm his assistant at work,' Meredith explained. John frowned and raised an eyebrow, but then realised that Sherlock wasn't the only Mr Holmes in the world. 'A colleague of Mycroft, I see. Your father must be very important to the government, then.'

'Not as important as Mister Holmes himself, of course, but yes. They can't really miss him, though I think most people care more about the lost documents than about my father.'

John shrugged, 'I don't care about the documents, I care about people. I promise you, we'll find him. What's his name?'

'David Cooper,' she answered John.

'And _how_ important are the documents? And, more importantly, what could one man do with them?' John noticed how easily he asked the questions, like he hadn't known any different. He couldn't help but feel like Sherlock a little, and he supressed a smile. **  
**Meredith shrugged, 'If the documents fall into the wrong hands, they could destroy England. I can't give you any more details, I'm sorry.'

John sighed but nodded understandably. 'Alright. We'll give you a call when we need more information.'

'I wrote my number and address down on a paper in the living room,' Meredith told him, 'Contact me as soon as you know anything.'

John smiled encouragingly and nodded again. 'Promise.'

He felt sorry for the woman, and as she walked out the door, he imagined what it would be like to be in her situation. All kinds of business men surrounding her, who only cared about the lost documents, while she cared about her father. John understood her, and was determined to help her. And if that meant that Mycroft wouldn't get what he wanted for once, then so be it. The doctor turned around and strode back into the living room. Sherlock sat in his leather chair and had picked up his violin. 'I'm not going to help my brother,' he muttered.

John's jaw dropped. How could he have possibly figured that out so fast? The doctor knew, though, that there wouldn't be a point in denying so he just said; 'Listen, you won't be helping him. You'll be helping Meredith.'

Sherlock looked down at his violin, while he replied, 'She's just a part of Mycroft's little plan. He sent her here to ask for help, instead of coming himself.'

John shook his head. 'You're wrong.' It was the first time John had spoken these words to Sherlock, convinced that they were actually true. 'There are two cases coming together here, Sherlock.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. He knew John wasn't finished yet, and he didn't want to interrupt him. He studied the doctor's determined face and realised that he was more than sure of himself.

'The first case is about finding these documents,' John continued, 'And with that you will be helping Mycroft.' Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but John kept talking. 'The second is finding Meredith's father and with that, believe me, you won't be helping the government.' John decided to keep the fact that David Cooper was in fact a politician from Sherlock. Sherlock didn't seem convinced and started to play his violin. But John wasn't done yet. 'Come on, Sherlock!' he said, raising his voice, 'You have to help her out.'

'Why do you care so much?'

'Her father is missing!'

'Her father is dead!' His violin fell to the floor as he jumped up from his chair and started pacing the flat. John sighed and scratched his head in the silence that fell. 'We have to find him,' he muttered, 'I promised her.'

Sherlock took his time, before he finally answered him. 'It could become interesting,' he muttered more to himself than to John, probably.

'And you could prevent England from being destroyed,' John said, thinking it might help to convince Sherlock. It did.

'The case is ours!'

John smiled, because even though Sherlock didn't really want to help his brother out, he was obviously excited by the thought of a new job.

'Tell me everything Meredith Cooper told you,' Sherlock ordered and John did.

* * *

There wasn't much for John to tell, because most answers he had gotten seemed irrelevant now. Sherlock had figured most of them out, before John could actually tell the detective about them. However, Sherlock had lots of questions he had wanted to ask Meredith, but John hadn't thought of those at the time. 'We need to know when she last saw her father. Where he could be. We have nothing else to go on, all our information must come from her.'

John nodded. 'Do you want me to call her?' He asked.

'Now? But she just left.'

'What does that matter? I told her we'd call if we had any more questions!'

One of the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched into a smile as he stopped pacing and walked towards John. The doctor looked up to him in surprise as the detective put an arm around his waist. 'And we will call her,' he said, 'Later.'

'Sherlock…'John began.

Sherlock leaned in and, an inch from John's face away, whispered, 'As a doctor, you ought to know that it's not healthy to work on a case, not when you've hit your head so recently.'

John chuckled and took a deep breath before he replied; 'As a doctor, I think you might be right.' No more than a second later, Sherlock's lips brushed his. John closed his eyes when the detective's hands ran through his hair and put one of his hands on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock slowly moved forward, taking cautious steps towards the couch. He pushed John back by his shoulders and the doctor stumbled backwards. Sherlock's grip around John tightened, and the detective was able to stop him from falling over. Instead, he made sure that John's landing on the sofa was a soft one, before he lowered himself on top of him. John held his hand against Sherlock's chest and felt his heartbeat and breathing through his shirt. Sherlock held John's neck with one of hands and traced the doctor's jaw with his thumb. A smile played around John's lips as he moved his hands over to the detective's shoulders. In the process, he ran his hands over Sherlock's chest and he chuckled quietly as he noticed that he could feel Sherlock's muscles tense and relax, even through the fabric. When his hands reached the detective's shoulders, John slid his hands between his button-down shirt and jacket. Sherlock smiled when he realised what the doctor was doing and continued their kiss, definitely with more enthusiasm than before, when John took the detective's jacket off. Sherlock, who already knew what John's next step would be, decided to beat his boyfriend and moved his hands over to his chest. John grinned when the detective started fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. After unbuttoning the first three, the doctor felt the other man's warm fingertips on his skin and shivered as the traced the rest of his bare chest, unbuttoning the last of the buttons on his shirt in the meanwhile. John sighed as Sherlock's lips left his and the doctor's muscles tensed as he felt the other man's heavy breathing in his neck, close to his ear. While Sherlock started kissing his boyfriend's neck, John's fingers opened the final button on Sherlock's shirt. As the fabric fell from his chest, the detective realised that he hadn't even noticed John playing with the buttons. Again, it appeared to him that John was a massive distraction. One he didn't mind though – not at all.

He pressed his lips against a tensed muscle in John's neck and the doctor gasped quietly. He put his hands around Sherlock's waist again and gently stroked his hip. Sherlock's lips moved over John's jawline, slowly moving closer to the doctor's mouth. Just as their lips were separated by less than an inch, John moved his hands from Sherlock's hips down to the beginning of his trousers. His fingers, slowly and teasingly, curled around the edges and before Sherlock could press his lips against his boyfriend's he grunted. John chuckled when the other man pulled away for a few seconds but then eagerly leaned in and brushing their lips together again. John was stroking Sherlock's inner thigh with his left hand, while his right crept back up to Sherlock's pants. Sherlock shivers were followed by a loud moan, as John traced the edge of his trousers, before his fingers briefly slid under them and stroked the detective's skin. The doctor pulled them out when Sherlock's lips left his and the detective gasped for air, before shouting John's name. John smiled and in a soft whisper muttered his boyfriend's name in response. Sherlock shivered again, at the touch of John's hands on his thighs, but was determined to beat John, which meant he bit his own lip to muffle his cries. It didn't really help, for John heard every single sound the detective made, no matter how quiet. 'I love you,' the doctor whispered, his mouth close to Sherlock's ear. Sherlock sighed and grunted quietly, but found himself capable of replying without making any more loud noises. 'And I you, John.'

John smiled, very pleased with himself, when Sherlock took a deep breath and leaned in again. His lips touched the doctor's seconds later. John closed his eyes, knowing Sherlock was in for his revenge. The other man's words only confirmed John's suspicions, 'You're going down, soldier Watson, believe me.'

'Gladly,' replied John, still chuckling quietly. He felt Sherlock shift a little to his left, while he pulled the doctor along, making sure he wouldn't drop to the floor.

Sherlock's dark curls brushed against John's forehead when the detective kissed him again. John arched his back when Sherlock's pressed his lips against his with even more energy, holding him by the back of his head. He unconsciously fiddled with John's hair, winding it around his fingers while still kissing him.

He slowly lowered his free hand to the other man's chest, tracing his muscles from his shoulders, down to his waist. The taller man's fingertips lingered on John's scar and traced the outlines of the circular war wound. He heard John giggle nervously before he whispered, 'You really like the idea of me as a soldier, don't you?'

Sherlock chuckled and pressed his lips against John's ear, something which made the doctor shiver in delight, before he answered him. 'No, I don't.'

'Liar,' John muttered, 'I know so, you told me before.'

'Then why ask, if you already know the answer?'  
Before John could reply, Sherlock shut him up by moving his hands further down. He curled one around the doctor's back, while the other hand continued to trace John's body, eventually passing over his jeans. John gasped when Sherlock's fingers teasingly stroked and tickled his leg. Then, instead of just using his fingertips, the detective flattened out his hand and rubbed the inside of John's thigh. John grunted and didn't even try to keep himself from making any sounds. 'Sherlock! Jesus Christ. Oh, Sherlock. _Sherlock!_' The detective had trouble understanding the last sound, as it was more of a low growl than an actual word. Even though he had expected John's reaction, Sherlock still smiled to himself. Every response he got from the doctor was simply incredible. The taller man removed his hand from John's leg, allowing him to relax his muscles. As Sherlock's lips kissed his ear again, John sighed and his hands, that had been clenched into fists only seconds ago, shot up to Sherlock's face, gently stroking his cheekbones. Sherlock sat up and eyed the man underneath him, who was still trying to get his breath back. His chest was going up and down rather fast and he panted quietly. So did Sherlock. Since no words were necessary, both men just stared at each other for a while, before Sherlock bent over one last time and gently kissed John's lips. The doctor smiled and sat up. He would've fallen from the couch if it weren't for Sherlock, who quickly grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back up. 'Careful there, John,' he whispered. John grinned, but then blushed, as he felt a quite clumsy and silly. Sherlock didn't understand why his boyfriend's cheeks had turned slightly pink, but decided to ignore it. As he got up from the sofa, his hand accidently brushed John's bare chest and both men chuckled quietly. 'Come on, we've got a visit to make,' the consulting detective muttered. John nodded, 'Meredith Cooper…' he said, a frown on his face, 'She said she left her address here.'

'So she did,' Sherlock said with raised eyebrows, 'And we will surely visit her, or call her, at some point. Very soon, even, but first things first.'

John shrugged in amazement, with Sherlock Holmes you never knew what would happen next. One moment he would want to call his client for more information, the other he would change his mind just as easily and do something entirely different. 'How do you mean?' The doctor asked, more than confused but curious nevertheless.

Sherlock smiled, 'You said it yourself; we are working on a two-in-one case. We have another client to see…'

'Mycroft.'

Sherlock had already put his coat on, while John was still closing the buttons on his shirt. The detective, clearly excited about the new case even if it concerned Mycroft, nearly ran down the stairs. John hobbled after him and sighed. Some things would never change, not with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**So, there we are. That was quite some fluff, wasn't it? :)**

**Please, let us know what you think the latest two chapters by leaving a review. **

**If you have any suggestions or tips, they're all welcome, just let us know. :)**

**Thanks! 3 **


	16. Chapters 31 and 32

**31. ****The Other Holmes**

John had never seen the house of Mycroft Holmes before, never even given it any thought, for he and Mycroft had always met up elsewhere. Somehow he had always imagined Sherlock's brother to live wherever he went. Mycroft didn't seem like a person who would sit around in his living room, stare out the window and do nothing. He was usually – practically always – working, John realised. He was so used to seeing Mycroft driving around London in fancy cars, always in a hurry, doing important stuff for the government, that he had never really thought of him as someone who would eat, and sleep.

For someone who was so important to the British government, Mycroft lived in a relatively small house in the centre of the city. But, even though it wasn't big, it must've been expensive, because John couldn't really believe that Mycroft wouldn't spend the money he had.

Before Sherlock could knock the door, it swung open and Mycroft and his forced smile greeted them with a polite; 'Hello.'

The expression on his face told both John and Sherlock that he knew what they were coming for. He shot an angry look at John, probably blaming him for the fact that Sherlock figured out that Mycroft wanted his documents back. Sherlock had apparently noticed the same. 'Don't give him that look, Mycroft,' he sneered, 'It was more than obvious that you needed my help. You could've just asked me, you know.'

Mycroft rolled his eyes and didn't reply, John and Sherlock followed him into the rest of the house. Now John understood what Mycroft had done with money. Paintings, statues and other objects decorated the living room they entered. John was just about to make a nice comment, when the man next to him mockingly said; 'Investing in art now, are we, Mycroft?'

'Don't you like it?' Mycroft said sarcastically. The look on his face could be interpreted as both bored and annoyed. Either way, Sherlock decided that his brother wouldn't like him to answer that last question.

'You're here for the case, I assume?' Mycroft's next question came.

Sherlock nodded and sat down in an oversized bright blue chair. Mycroft pouted his lips disapprovingly and shook his head. 'What?' Sherlock asked annoyed.

'You're sitting in my chair.'

Sherlock sighed. 'I'm not getting up.'

'Oh yes, you are!' Mycroft said angrily.

But Sherlock didn't seem impressed by his brother's raised voice. 'No, I am not. I won't help you retrieve your documents if you make me move.'

Now it was Mycroft's time to sigh. 'Fine,' he said. He sat down in a chair across Sherlock's. It was a different shade of blue, with grey stripes and John couldn't help but smile, for nothing in Mycroft's home seemed to match. There were only two chairs in the room, so John sat down on the armrest of Sherlock's chair. As always when the Holmes' met up, there was an awkward silence, before Mycroft said; 'Can I get you something? My housekeeper just made tea and she baked a cake.'

Sherlock and John both declined. 'I don't want your food, Mycroft, you can eat it all by yourself. No, what I want are answers.'

Mycroft scowled, rolled his eyes and asked in a bored voice, 'What is it you want to know?'  
'Meredith couldn't tell us what the documents were about,' Sherlock began, annoyed by his older brother. 'I was rather hoping you could.'

'These documents are of national importance to the British government. I don't know what you're expecting me to tell you.'

'Everything.'

Mycroft sighed. 'I cannot tell you everything, Sherlock.'

'Why not? If I am to retrieve these documents, I must know what they are about.'

John rolled his eyes at the Holmes' argument and gently patted Sherlock's shoulder. 'Calm down. He'll tell us everything we need to know.' He shot Mycroft a meaningful look, as to say he better.

Mycroft sighed again, his hand drifting off to the cup of tea that was standing on the table beside his chair. 'These documents…' he began, not looking Sherlock nor John in the eye, 'Contain some valuable information, which we want to be kept secret. It might result into some difficult problems with other governments. And if that… information… is stolen, people might blame a certain person for that.'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in suspicion. Mycroft had an irritable look on his face, which made Sherlock think the man had already said too much. 'And why did Meredith have them?' he asked, knowing that Meredith might not answer that question truthfully herself.

'She stores files. It is her job,' Mycroft answered, looking directly at his younger brother.

Sherlock shrugged. 'And this person,' Sherlock said with a grin, 'Is he – or she – important to the government?'

'More important than David Cooper,' Mycroft said, knowing Sherlock had already figured out what was in the documents. He pulled up his lips in a disapproving way, which made John giggle. Sherlock looked up at the sound and smiled, immediately felt happy when he saw John's smiling face. Unaware of what he was doing, he lifted his left hand and touched John's back, gently stroking it. John was able to suppress a nervous giggle, but Mycroft still noticed, and decided to ignore it.

'David Cooper is most likely dead,' Sherlock continued, a slight blush on his face. 'Someone found out he had the documents, given to him by his daughter, and they murdered him and took them. End of discussion.'

'You and I both know that might not be true, Sherlock,' Mycroft sneered. 'You're going to investigate. You're going to tell me how it's going. And if you don't,' he turned his attention to John, 'Then _you_ will.'

John frowned in concern and looked at Sherlock. 'We will have to take this case,' he whispered. 'You already told me you would. I'm more interested in Meredith's father than those documents, but we can't run from the government.'

Sherlock frowned, admitting John had a point. 'Okay,' he replied reluctantly.

'You're going to take it?' Mycroft asked, a hint of surprise visible in his expression. 'Good, that's good. We'll pay you, of course, if you manage to retrieve these documents.'

'Anything more you can tell us?' Sherlock asked, interrupting his brother. He did not necessarily need more information, he just wanted to tease Mycroft a bit.

Mycroft took a deep breath, as to keep himself from shouting. His gaze drifted off to Sherlock's hand, still touching John's body. He noticed he had moved further down and quickly averted his eyes, not wanting to make them feel uncomfortable – after all, they _were_ a couple. 'That's all. For now,' he said. 'I read the papers this morning,' he added with a small smile.

John's body immediately tensed and Sherlock felt it beneath his hands. He chuckled quietly. 'Anything interesting?' he asked, acting oblivious.  
'Quite interesting,' Mycroft replied. He looked from his brother to John, and a smile crossed his face as he realised John was very uncomfortable. 'Are you sure you don't want some cake, or tea?'

'No,' Sherlock said while getting up, pulling John with him. 'We're leaving, now. We have to question Meredith as well before nightfall.'  
Mycroft nodded, standing up as well. 'You know the way out,' he said. Sherlock grinned and strode past him, dragging John behind him. 'Bye,' John muttered to Mycroft.

At the door, Sherlock turned around for a brief moment and looked at Mycroft, a mocking grin on his face as he said, 'For the record, Mycroft – cake does not help when you're on a diet.'

* * *

Laughing loudly, they left Mycroft Holmes' house. John shook his head, but smiled when he felt Sherlock's hand search for his. He gladly took it, without looking at his boyfriend, and asked, 'Where to next?'

'Meredith's house,' Sherlock answered. 'Remember that café at Hyde Park? She lives two streets away from there.'

John nodded, enjoying the memory of one of their dates. 'It's such a sunny day,' he mused, an implying undertone in his soft voice. He stole a look at Sherlock to see his reaction, and chuckled as he saw that the detective had a pondering look on his face. Sherlock decided not to reply and started walking towards the street, holding up his hand as he signalled a cab. 'Taxi!'

'What do you think she will tell us?' John asked, opening the cab door. He gestured for Sherlock to get in first, and followed him moments after.

'She will tell us as much as she knows – except what the documents are about. That might cost her her job. But that does not matter, for we have that information already.'

'Mycroft hardly told us anything,' John complained. How could Sherlock possibly know…?

'He told us they would get trouble with other governments. That means it's international. Someone would get the blame, which means something has happened for which somebody could be blamed. An error, then. And international error.'

'But what international error?'

'He told us one person would be blamed, should these documents fall into the wrong hands. I don't know about you, but Mycroft is not such a good liar.'

'You think he was holding something back?' John asked.

'Yes.'

'And you know what,' John stated.

'You do, too.'

'No, I…' John paused. 'Wait. _Mycroft_?' he asked incredulously. 'Mycroft's made a mistake?'

Sherlock laughed. 'You remember, John, that plane crash in Germany about a year ago? They tried to avoid the next one. I solved that code for Irene, remember?'

'I remember,' John said, his good mood evaporating once he heard The Woman's name. It disconcerted him to think about Sherlock and her, and whether he may have had feelings for her.

Sherlock noticed John's smile fade, but didn't know what had caused it. He shrugged and continued. 'Because I solved that code, Irene texted Moriarty – ' Sherlock's own face couldn't hide his disgust, ' – and told him what plane the government had used to take the blow, containing only dead passengers. Nobody would be killed that way, but Moriarty found out and let Mycroft know. Millions of pounds and years of planning wasted because of that one text…'

John listened to his boyfriend, his mouth hanging open. He never got used to Sherlock's brilliant brain – in fact, the more he was around him, the harder it was to believe.

'And so we need those documents back,' Sherlock said. 'For the person who has it can use them to blackmail the government. Mycroft could lose his position in the government, or the thief can ask for money in return, he could even sell the documents to other governments, and in that case, England will have a problem.'

'That's why Mycroft was so determined to have us on this case,' John muttered. 'Amazing.'

'What is?' Sherlock asked.

'You are,' John chuckled, putting his arms around Sherlock. 'I still don't understand how you manage to figure all this out with as little information as we have.'

'Honestly, it's not that difficult!' Sherlock exclaimed. 'It's just the simple process of elimination, and – '

His next words came out in a muffle, for John had pressed his body tight to the detective's, and kissed him enthusiastically. Sherlock responded immediately by curling his hands around John's waist, keeping him close. 'You are amazing, John,' Sherlock muttered. 'Not me. I'm just the stupid consulting detective who had his best friend believe he was dead.'

John frowned and pulled away, looking at Sherlock in confusion. 'Are you still...?'

'Yes, I am,' Sherlock interrupted him. 'There's nothing you can do about it, what's done is done. I'll just live with my own guilt and that's fine, because I brought it onto myself.'

'No, Sherlock.' John shook his head. 'God, you can be so stupid at times. Don't you see? I. Don't. Give. A. Damn. I really don't,' he said, taking Sherlock's face in his hands. 'You are perfect to me. Whatever may or may not have happened in the past does not matter to me. I only want you now.'

'It matters to me,' the detective whispered, once again tearing up due to John's choice of words. 'I've watched you. You've been through hell, and I... I just...' He shook his head, blinked the tears away and looked out the window. 'I'm so sorry,' he whispered.

'Apologies accepted,' John said. 'A long time ago.' He hugged his boyfriend tight against him and rested his head on his chest, muttering; 'I love you so much, Sherlock. You have no idea.'

'I think I do,' Sherlock murmured, his arm around John. 'Because I love you, too.'

* * *

Meredith's house was small and cosy. She seemed surprised to see them already so soon, but she let them in nevertheless. Sherlock walked through the hallway with long strides, and John followed him, as always entranced by his silhouette. He loved watching Sherlock, his movements intrigued him. He noticed that Sherlock walked with a slight spring in his step, as if he was excited. He noticed the way his arms swung beside his body, occasionally straightening his coat or reaching inside his pockets. He noticed the detective was constantly looking around, noticing things of his own. John blushed when he realised he was paying attention to Sherlock the way Sherlock paid attention to his surroundings, analysing. Well then, John thought, then I know Sherlock Holmes better than anyone. This thought gave him a pleased smile, which did not go unnoticed by the tall man.

'What are you so happy about?' he asked.

'You,' John answered truthfully, making the detective blush for the second time that day. Meredith pretended she hadn't heard anything but smiled to herself; she thought they made a lovely couple.

'Please, sit down,' she said, directing to the living room. 'I'll make you some tea.'

Before Sherlock or John could say anything, she disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the two men standing in the living room. John turned to Sherlock and shrugged, sitting down on the bright orange sofa. Sherlock followed his example, his hand brushing John's leg in the process. They both smiled and started chuckling, though Sherlock kept his hand where it was.

Meredith returned after a couple of minutes, in which Sherlock and John had just been looking at each other, carrying a tray on which she balanced a tea pot, three cups and a plate of cookies. She sat down opposite them, in a chair that, unlike Mycroft's, matched the rest of the room. It was orange-red, white flowers printed on it. Sherlock pulled up his nose at the interior, but John quite liked it. It felt warm, especially with Sherlock's hand touching his leg.

'Meredith,' Sherlock began, leaning forward. John suppressed a reluctant grunt when his hand left his leg and joined the other one, his elbows resting on his knees. John couldn't help but notice how the fabric of his trousers pulled tight around his legs at the movement and bit his lip. He decided to drag Sherlock along with him to the park afterwards.

Meredith filled the three cups with the hot water, looking up when she heard her name. She nodded and smiled.

'Why did you give the documents to your father?'

'I had to transport them, and some other files, to another location,' she explained, trying to move around the classified information. 'So I had them in a briefcase. I was done with the other files, the ones that were most important – at the time,' she added, blushing when she realised her mistake. 'I was called off, but I couldn't leave my work unattended, so I called for my dad. I knew I could trust him, he works for the government as well, so...'

Sherlock nodded. 'And now he's disappeared.'

'Yes,' Meredith confirmed.

'When did you last see him?'

She thought for a moment, sipping her tea. John bent down to pick up his cup, feeling the need to do something with his hands. Meredith answered quite quickly. 'When I handed him the briefcase. That was... five days ago,' she said. 'It was in the office, where we both work. It was late already, and someone needed my help, so I gave the documents to him. Someone must have found out and abducted him, or stole the documents...' she started sobbing. 'He can't be dead, he can't be!'

John looked at Sherlock and raised his eyebrows. _Oh, come on! We've got to help her out.  
_  
Sherlock frowned and looked from Meredith to John, rolling his eyes. _I already told you, I will help. I'm not doing it for her, though.  
_  
John sighed and pouted his lips as he frowned. _I know, I know. You're doing it for the sake of having something to do.  
_  
Sherlock shrugged. _Obviously.  
_  
Meredith seemed to have come to her senses and wiped her eyes with a napkin. 'Sorry,' she muttered.

'It's okay,' John comforted her. 'We're going to help out.'

'Any idea where you're father could be right now?' Sherlock continued quite abruptly.

'I've tried his house,' Meredith sniffed. 'You can still go there, to investigate, I mean... I didn't notice anything, but you might.'

'Anything else? We can't be sure he was abducted in the first place,' Sherlock pointed out. He wouldn't admit it to John, but he was actually interested in the case.

'Not that I know of. Where else would he be for five days if he hadn't been abducted?'

John shot Sherlock a look that said, _don't you dare tell her he's dead._ Sherlock shrugged and shook his head. 'That's what we're going to investigate,' he said while standing up. 'Come on, John.'

'I left his address under mine in your flat,' Meredith called after them. 'I was hoping you'd already seen it...?'

'Yes. Thank you.'

'And for the tea!' John called, following Sherlock out.

* * *

'Please?' John pleaded, grabbing Sherlock's hand as the detective started to walk away. 'It's such a nice day. I can't believe you're wearing that coat.'

'But we've got work to do,' Sherlock said.

'Work can wait,' John replied, a glow in his eyes that immediately changed Sherlock's mind.

'All right, then. A short walk.'

John folded his fingers through Sherlock's, loving the feel of the detective's soft, warm hand. His heart started beating faster when he felt Sherlock's fingers curl around his as well.

They went through the open gates, crossing the street. They followed a little path, running into the occasional jogger or cyclist. Neither of them spoke; usually, their silences said more than any words ever could.

They turned a corner and went into the middle of the park, where more people were taking a stroll. They kept walking, holding hands, and finally, nobody seemed to notice them anymore. It was as if suddenly, everyone had gotten used to it.

'Sherlock...?' John asked, staring at his boyfriend with wide eyes. He had noticed a bright, sunny patch of grass, a tree nearby, providing a little bit of shade. It looked so inviting, and John started to tug the tall man's sleeve. He smiled and didn't even have to ask Sherlock, for he understood.  
He just rolled his eyes and started walking. John's smile broadened in delight and he almost skipped along.

'What's got you all happy?' Sherlock asked, confused.

'I don't know. The weather?'

'Hmmm,' Sherlock grunted as he sat down beside John, more in the shade than in the sun. He hated the weather. 'So... the documents are about the fact that the British government has made a serious mistake. I presume Mycroft is mentioned in it, otherwise, he would not be easily blamed.'  
John started plucking the grass, listening to Sherlock's ongoing deductions. He smiled as an idea popped into his head.

'I suggest we start looking around David Cooper's house – John! John, what are you doing?' Sherlock asked, his arm shooting up towards his right ear as he felt something tickle. John was poking it with the grass he had plucked and he chuckled, enjoying Sherlock's reaction. 'Stop it,' Sherlock cried, a beaming smile on his face as he grabbed John's wrist. John let go of the straws of grass and they landed in Sherlock's dark curls. John giggled as Sherlock got hold of a handful of grass himself and pushed John over on his back, scattering the little bits of grass all around his hair and face. They were both soon roaring with laughter, and they looked into each other's eyes. John's heartbeat fastened when he saw Sherlock's smile, and the familiar sparkle in his eyes. Still smiling, he closed his eyes when he felt Sherlock lean in and waited expectantly to feel Sherlock's soft lips on his. He let out a soft grunt when he felt Sherlock's tentative lips brush his and lifted his arms to put his hands on either side of Sherlock's face. Sherlock's hands slid down to his waist and tickled the skin, parting his lips as he kissed John with more urgency. John's touch left tingles all around his face; where his hands touched and softly rubbed his cheeks, where the tip of his nose brushed his skin, and where his lips kissed him back even more passionately than before. One of Sherlock's hands crept upwards, across John's chest, to his neck, to his jaw line, to where their lips met. He pulled back slightly, and traced the line of John's lips with his index finger, his eyes focused on the shape. John smiled and reached for the back of Sherlock's head, pulling him closer by his curls. His other hand slid down, tracing the man's collar bones, his chest and the long line of buttons he couldn't open. Instead, he slid his fingers in between two of them, gently tickling the warm skin. He felt Sherlock's strong heartbeat and felt attracted to it – maybe it was just because it was proof that he was alive, he somehow must have taken his pulse wrong in the shock when he had fallen. Sherlock shivered when he felt John's hand on his chest, muttering; 'Oh, John...'

John whispered his name back and pulled his boyfriend's face closer once more. Several people were watching, interested. It did not seem weird, as most of them had assumed. It seemed quite the opposite; they were perfect for each other, complemented each other. Nobody who had seen Sherlock and John together could ever imagine either one of them with somebody else.

'God, I love you,' John panted when their lips parted. His hands were on Sherlock's back now, rubbing upwards, then downwards, and back again, repeating the process over and over. Sherlock's fingers were playing with John's hair, his thumbs gently stroked John's cheeks. 'Oh, John, I love you, too…' he whispered back, continuing their kiss. It wasn't like it would have been in their apartment, but it was just as perfect. It was just a soft brush on the mouth, but it was far from short. Neither of them knew how long they just lay there, on the grass, the sun in their faces, but they knew they never wanted to leave.

John had his eyes closed the entire time, just enjoying Sherlock's soft lips on his and his long, pale fingers stroking his hair, still careful around the big, purple bruise on the side of his head. Sherlock chuckled quietly, remembering how he had taken care of him. It made him feel good to have done something nice. He was beginning to feel the heat of the day through his long coat and struggled to take it off. John blushed when he decided to help out, vaguely remembering they were in a public space. Sherlock threw away his coat and kissed John again, very slowly and gently. John's fingers fiddled with Sherlock's blue scarf, eventually pulling it out of the loop it was always in and throwing that on top of the big coat. 'Told you it was warm,' John muttered.

'It's not,' Sherlock answered. 'You are hot.'

John giggled and kissed Sherlock on the cheek – through his lips, he felt that Sherlock's skin was warm. 'You are, too,' he whispered back, and he felt Sherlock's cheeks get even hotter against his own. He grinned when he realised he had made Sherlock blush, and when he pulled back, he saw the detective's pink cheeks and a tiny smile on his face. 'You really think so,' he stated.

'Of course I do. Have you seen yourself?' John asked, not feeling the slightest hint of embarrassment. Sherlock was, after all, a handsome man – a _very_ handsome man, John thought with a shiver and chuckled in delight when he realised that Sherlock loved him.

'I have.'

'Then you must know that you are...' John looked down, stroking Sherlock's chest, unable to find the words that could express his feelings. 'Not an ugly man. In fact, the exact opposite.'

Sherlock frowned. 'You're not ugly,' he said.

John sniggered. 'I have been informed on multiple occasions that I am.'

'But you're not,' Sherlock said, a hint of surprise audible in his voice. His eyes told John everything – they scanned his face and body adoringly, and John knew that Sherlock thought about him the exact same way as he thought about him, even though he didn't – or couldn't – explicitly say so.  
'And even if you were,' Sherlock continued, his gaze lingering around John's lips, 'I would still love you.'

'Same here,' John whispered when he felt Sherlock's heavy breathing in his neck. The detective pressed his smiling lips there for a moment before getting up. John sighed reluctantly and sat up, staring at his boyfriend, who was picking up his coat from the grass. He couldn't keep himself from glancing at Sherlock's buttocks when he bent over and let out a nervous giggle. Sherlock looked around, eyes narrowing when he saw John staring and grinned when he noticed a heated blush appear on his face. He decided to stuff his scarf in his pocket – he was still feeling quite hot. He stretched out his hand and helped John up, giving him a small kiss on the mouth before walking off, his hand sliding down John's arm to take his. John sighed happily, thinking about Sherlock as his boyfriend. Sherlock had quite a similar expression on his face; one of affection. He looked down at the doctor, and John looked back. There was a mutual understanding in their eyes and they both smiled, looking for a cab to take them back home to 221B Baker Street.

**32. Deception**

They got home moments later, and Sherlock's hand still hadn't let go of John's. It was only after reaching their front door that he realised. Not wanting to let go, he fished his keys out with his other hand, a bit clumsily because it was his left, and opened the door. He stepped in and pulled John with him, his hand still clasped around John's. John smiled when he felt Sherlock's pull and bolted up the stairs with him. They stumbled through the door to the living room together, already in each other's arms. Their kiss in the park had not been enough for either of them, and they were more than ready to make up for it.

John decided on the upper hand and shoved Sherlock backwards. Sherlock already veered towards the sofa, but John grinned and grabbed him by the shoulders, steering him towards the desk. 'Aha...' Sherlock chuckled, resting against the edge of the desk while taking his coat off. John helped out with the scarf again and tossed it over his shoulder. Before Sherlock had time to regain his composure, John had placed his hands on his shoulders and pushed him backwards. Sherlock winced as his back slammed against the polished wood and he grunted when he felt John pulling him up a bit, so that his entire upper body and a bit of his legs rested on the desk. John grinned, enjoying the muffled sounds coming out of Sherlock's mouth. Not feeling the need to be careful, John dropped himself onto Sherlock's chest and immediately started to unbutton his shirt. He just needed to see those muscles, feel them. His mouth hungry for the taste of Sherlock's skin, he pressed his lips to the tall man's neck. He heard Sherlock grunt quietly when his hands stroked over his chest.

'Can I ask you something, Sherlock?' John whispered, softly brushing his lips along the detective's neck. 'Hmm...' Sherlock moaned, not able to make any other noises.

'How did you build up these muscles?' John asked with a grin, his hands tracing Sherlock's chest, his waist and his stomach. Sherlock chuckled, and he was surprised he managed without making any other sounds. 'I, ah...' he began, his voice hoarse. 'Don't know,' he mumbled when he felt John's lips against his belly. His muscles tensed immediately and John felt it, grinning mischievously. He moved his hand down and Sherlock gasped expectantly, knowing where John was headed. He arched his back when he felt the tips of John's fingers gently tickle the skin on the edge of his pants, before moving down and flattening out his hand when he reached Sherlock's buttocks. Sherlock decided to let their game go for once and exhaled, a long, soft moan escaping his mouth. 'I need you, John,' he panted, pulling John's face closer to his. 'Now.'

John obliged willingly, and, while he continued to stroke the detective's buttocks, pressed his open mouth to Sherlock's. A low growl came from Sherlock's lips and he lifted one of his legs, curling it around John's as his muscles tensed again. 'I suppose I don't have to ask how you built up yours,' he whispered, running a hand over John's chest. His bright green eyes staring at John, a wild look in them, almost obsessed, he moved his hands towards the first button on John's shirt. 'You're referring to me as a soldier again, aren't you?' John grinned. 'What do you like about it so much?'  
'It's hot,' Sherlock just answered. 'Better than a doctor, anyway. But even that's better than a consulting detective.' He had successfully unbuttoned all of the buttons on John's shirt and he took it off, throwing it in a dark corner of the room. His arms curled around John possessively, pulling him even closer. 'You have no idea,' John contradicted. 'Because I'm lying right on top of one.' He had to keep his eyes open; the gaze with which Sherlock was staring at his body was simply overwhelming. He knew Sherlock had never really had someone to look at, but it was almost as if the whole experience was new to him. It wasn't, not really – not anymore. It was the sheer look of wonder, mixed with one of insanity. Any other day, that look would have frightened him, but not that day. Sherlock just loved him.

He gave in to his feelings when he realised that – if that was still possible. Sherlock was kissing him with such force, it almost hurt, but John couldn't care less. He grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's hair when he pushed himself down on Sherlock's chest again, sandwiching Sherlock's hands between their chests. They slowly moved upwards, his fingers curling over his shoulders one by one, at a torturously slow pace. John felt Sherlock's control return and slid his hand down a bit more, his flattened hand rubbing the tall man's thigh through the thin, smooth fabric. 'Ah, John,' Sherlock grunted. He gritted his teeth, afraid of what noises he might make. He had no choice but to relax again when he felt John's lips search for his again. 'Jesus...' he mumbled against John's mouth. John chuckled at Sherlock's response to his actions. He loved Sherlock's low voice, getting lower every time he touched him. He was aiming for something more, however; the way Sherlock's magnificent voice shot up as he cried out, his fingernails digging into his skin, muscles tensing. Knowing exactly how to get there, he pulled away, his lips brushing Sherlock's skin as he followed his jawline. 'Oh, God...' he heard Sherlock moan as he kept on rubbing the insides of his thighs in a steady rhythm. John knew Sherlock's crumbling composure would fall within seconds.

He was right; once one of his hands moved upwards towards his weak spot again, slowly following the curve, Sherlock clenched his fists, his fingers tight around John's shoulders, and inhaled sharply before almost shouting John's name. John quickly planted a kiss to his neck, before the muscles relaxed again, and lay back down, half on top of Sherlock, drawing spiralling circles on his chest with his index finger. Sherlock's head was tilted back, his eyes were closed. The look of pure ecstasy was still visible on his face as he grinned, pleased with himself – and John. 'John,' he just said. John smiled, getting off the desk. Sherlock tried to pull him back, but his strength hadn't quite returned and his arm fell back, as if all the bones had disappeared.**  
**John looked at him, a yearning expression also on his face, but he turned around and picked up their shirts nevertheless. Sherlock had to think.

* * *

'The case...' Sherlock kept muttering, along with other words John wasn't able to comprehend. 'Anyone who would have those documents would have the power to blackmail the government. The one who has these documents knows this.'

'The one who abducted David Cooper?'

'We don't know he's abducted,' Sherlock said. 'It is a possibility he was murdered. There is a possibility he left on his own...'

'Maybe he was being threatened?' John offered.

'Perhaps...' Sherlock answered in a whisper.

'We can't know until we have searched his house,' John said, putting away his newspaper – luckily, no article about them today – and stood up. 'Well?' he said when Sherlock hadn't moved. 'Are we going to investigate, or what?'

Sherlock frowned and looked up, as if he hadn't heard John before. 'Oh, yes, of course,' he said, blinking a few times. He stood up as well and searched for his coat. He found it at the foot of the kitchen table and bent down to pick it up. John looked at him the entire time and loved the way the detective moved. Sherlock's whole body just _worked_. He remembered their little grass fight from earlier that day and smiled as the memory of how – there was no other word for it – adorably sweet Sherlock had looked when he had smiled from ear to ear, rubbing grass in his face. There was a childishness to his boyfriend that made him look so innocent and adorable sometimes. The way his eyes sparkled with mischief and pleasure, the way his cheeks round when he smiled, the way his nose perked up when he laughed. His chest rumbling when he chuckled, his strong, strangely muscled arms holding him where he was, his mouth touching the place where his hot breath had been a second earlier – John shook his head. He needed to concentrate, Sherlock needed to concentrate on the case.

'What?' Sherlock asked, an expression of utter confusion on his beautiful face.

'Nothing,' John replied, a big smile forming around his lips when he realised that even Sherlock's confusion set off a spark in his stomach. The little frown lines on Sherlock's forehead when he tried to understand something that did not make sense to him... The narrowing of his eyes when he had caught on on something. The slight turn of his head when he had figured something out and decided to keep it quiet. John's smile widened. He knew Sherlock so well.

'Well, come on then!' Sherlock interrupted the other man's thoughts, tugging him along down the stairs. In their hurry, the door slammed shut behind them and John had to stop Sherlock from rushing down the street, for he wanted to lock it properly first. The impatient detective nearly jumped up and down in excitement. John chuckled when he and his boyfriend were finally off. 'I didn't think a case of Mycroft's could ever get you moving and now look at you!' The shorter man laughed when Sherlock shot him a look. He still didn't want to admit how much he was enjoying himself already. They hadn't even discovered anything extremely interesting yet, but Sherlock knew what an incredible mystery this could turn out to be. When he didn't react to John's comment, the doctor simply said, 'You're amazing, you are.'

Sherlock's lips curled into a smile and he put his arm around his boyfriend. 'If _I_ am amazing,' he said in a low voice, 'then what on earth are you?'

'An idiot.'

Sherlock sniggered. 'I love you,' he muttered. Before John could reply, Sherlock spotted a car and quickly signalled it over.

* * *

'We take too many cabs,' grumbled John when they got out of the car half an hour later. 'And we'd probably be much faster if we'd walk, because the traffic's just insane! I mean, why would anyone travel by car anyway, when the weather's this nice? Can't they just…'

The look on Sherlock's face shut him up and he worriedly asked, 'What's wrong?'

Sherlock pointed towards the house of David Cooper and said, 'Nothing's wrong. I was just wondering why he lives in a house this big, just on his own.'

John eyed the house in front of them. It was, indeed, massive. 'Meredith's father must be rich,' he stated.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded, 'Yes, of course, he works for Mycroft.'

John shrugged, but then realised what Sherlock had said before that. 'Hang on,' the doctor said, 'What do you mean he lives on his own?'

As they walked up the porch, 'Well, obviously, Meredith's not living with him anymore.'

'What about his wife?'

'I already considered it odd that it was just his daughter that showed up, wouldn't his wife be just as concerned?'

John shrugged, 'Probably, yes.'

'Unless, there is no wife, of course,' Sherlock finished.

His friend sighed and frowned. 'It's not proof, though,' he contradicted, 'She could've just decided that it'd be enough for her daughter to come to us. There could be plenty of reasons th…'

But Sherlock was already shaking his head, 'If his wife would've lived here too, don't you think Meredith would've informed us about her? No, there is no wife. I'm certain.'

'Maybe there is. How else are we going to get in?'

They stood outside the front door and John had knocked it unconsciously, when no one opened it for them, the doctor shrugged. 'Why didn't Meredith just give us her key to the house? Would've been a whole lot easier.'

'Come on, there's got to be another way in. There always is,' Sherlock said thoughtfully.

But there wasn't. The two men walked around the house, and found the backdoor just as locked as the front one. Sherlock checked every window, but none of them could let them in. 'So, what do we do now?' John asked, 'Break in?'

Sherlock was determined to find another way to get in, just to prove that he could, but there was no point, since John already started bashing on the backdoor. It gave in after a few good kicks and Sherlock stared at his boyfriend for a few seconds with pure amazement on his face. 'What?' The doctor asked.

Sherlock smiled teasingly. 'Nothing, it's just that a year or so ago, you wouldn't have even considered that an option.'

'But you just told me that Mycroft pays him, he has more than enough money, surely he can replace a backdoor, then.'

The detective grinned, but then his expression changed. 'I don't think he's going to pay for anything.'

'You still think he's dead? Murdered?'

'Until proven differently, yes.'

John knew that his friend was probably right, but he preferred thinking of it the other way around. Until proven differently, David Cooper was still alive to him.

Sherlock scanned the surprisingly small room they'd entered. There were a few chairs and a sofa surrounding a glass table in the middle of the room. All the furniture was quite luxurious but, Sherlock noted, it was obvious that David Cooper had spent his money on things that were useful to him and made sense. The detective had expected the house to be full of the latest technologies, instead he found that Meredith's father preferred to read given by the size of his bookcase. The politician was the proud owner of a television, though, but Sherlock could tell that he hardly ever used it. They entered the extremely clean kitchen. The countertop was empty except for a coffee machine, next to the sink.

'What are we looking for?' John asked, watching his boyfriend move through the room, opening cupboards, sniffing books and checking the walls with his magnifying glass. Without looking at the doctor, Sherlock replied; 'Anything that could tell us anything about his abduction.'

'Like a broken glass?' John asked while picking the shattered pieces from the kitchen floor. He held them in his hands and showed them to Sherlock. While the detective checked the broken glass and examined the pool of water on the floor, John had a look around the rest of the house.

He soon found himself upstairs in David Cooper's sober bedroom. As he went through the drawers of the man's nightstand he heard Sherlock pass through the hallway downstairs. He was clearly muttering to himself. 'Sherlock!' He called down the stairs. The detective's face appeared around the corner.

'Have you found anything else, yet?' John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. 'It's very curious,' he said, 'The broken glass indicates there's been some kind of struggle. However, there's no other evidence to be found.'

'Maybe he just knocked his glass of water over and didn't clean it up?' John suggested. Sherlock shook his head. 'Haven't you noticed how clean this house is, John? No, Mr Cooper would definitely have picked the pieces up.'

John shrugged and was just about to check the rest of the bedroom when he heard Sherlock's voice again. 'John! John! Hurry, have a look at this!'

The other man came rushing down the stairs immediately and found Sherlock crouched by the front door. 'Here,' he pointed out when John peered over his shoulder. The tip of Sherlock's finger brushed a few red dots on the white wall. 'Is that,' John began hesitantly, 'blood?'

Sherlock nodded. 'He hit the wall right here,' he said while patting it with his fingertips.

John studied the wall before he asked, 'How's that possible?'

'Ah,' Sherlock said mysteriously, 'So you've noticed it too?'

John nodded as his friend continued, 'The door opens to the inside, and nearly hits the wall with the blood splashes on it, every time you open it.' Sherlock demonstrated that he was right, by opening the front door.

'That means it's almost impossible to hit that wall. At least not when the door is open, something you'd expect with an abduction,' John continued Sherlock's deduction. Sherlock nodded in agreement and said, 'I'll take a sample of it, we'll test whose blood it is and how old it is in the lab.'

After a final check, Sherlock stated there was nothing else in David Cooper's house that had anything to do with their case. 'A broken glass and blood spatters on the wall,' Sherlock muttered, as they left the house. 'Something's not right about this.'

'Maybe he wasn't abducted after all,' John suggested.

'No, he's just magically disappeared with the most important documents of the country,' Sherlock said sarcastically, 'He was abducted, John and whoever did this to him, knew how important the documents were!'

* * *

After taking a cab they arrived at the lab, where they ran into Molly Hooper. She greeted them with her usual cheerful, 'oh, hello!' She followed them into the lab and watched Sherlock take out the blood samples. 'What are you doing?' she asked, not capable of controlling her curiosity.

'It's for a case,' Sherlock replied curtly.

'Can I help?' Molly offered and when Sherlock didn't reply, looked at John. The doctor, who never really understood Sherlock's tests in the lab, stared back with raised eyebrows. 'If you want to,' he said, 'I'm sure Sherlock's got some thinking to do back home and we can use all the time you can give us, really.'

Molly nodded and smiled her brightest smile. 'What can I do?'

Sherlock finally turned around and faced her. 'This blood might belong to one David Cooper, I'm almost certain that it does. I need confirmation, though and I need to know when this blood was lost. Make sure to call me as soon as you find out.'

And with these final words he turned his back and strode out of the lab, followed by his boyfriend, who quickly waved at Molly and mouthed a friendly 'thank you.'

* * *

'That was a nice thing you just did, Sherlock,' John said when they got into the cab that would bring them home.

'What was?'

'Letting her help us out. You know how much she loves doing so.' John smiled at his boyfriend. The doctor knew that Sherlock was aware of it. He knew he'd done something kind for a friend and even though his cold face didn't show it right now, John knew that he was pleased with himself.

'Hmm,' was all the detective replied.

'Listen,' John said all of a sudden, 'I've been thinking, about the case and I…' He hesitated and looked at Sherlock, who stared back. The look on the detective's face showed curiosity. He actually wanted to know whether John had figured something out. He then nodded, encouraging John to continue.

'Well, what if Cooper wasn't abducted?'

'How do you mean? If not abducted and, probably, murdered, then what?'

'You've been talking about a murder since we heard about this case, but what if you're wrong? What if Cooper wanted the documents for himself? If they're as important as everyone says and worth just as much, why wouldn't he?'

Sherlock frowned. 'Then how do you explain the broken glass and the blood?'

'What if it's all faked? What if David Cooper wants us to believe that he was abducted, dead even?'

Sherlock fell quiet for a few seconds and went over John's words in his mind. Then he started laughing.

'What?' John, who thought Sherlock was mocking his deduction, asked, 'Surely it's not such a stupid comment. You have to admit, it's a possibility!'

'I know,' Sherlock chuckled, 'It's the _only_ possibility!'

Sherlock kept laughing in his low rumble the entire way home, and John couldn't help but join in, even though he had no idea what the detective thought was so amusing.

* * *

'Absolutely brilliant, John!' Sherlock exclaimed when they entered their apartment. John blushed and then curiously asked, 'How are you so sure that I'm right?'

Still with a broad grin on his face Sherlock explained; 'The broken glass is a very obvious sign of struggle, isn't it? A bit obvious, even. Two people fight and knock a glass of water over. The only one in the room, at that. Strange coincidence, isn't it?'

John nodded, and continued where Sherlock had stopped. 'Next to that, we have the strange blood splashes on the wall. Cooper probably cut himself and smeared the blood next to the door, not knowing that if he had actually hit the wall, it would be practically impossible to hit it in that spot.'

Sherlock nodded approvingly and gestured for John to continue. 'What else, what else?' he asked, almost intrigued.

'When we arrived all windows and doors were shut. If someone had broken into the house, one of these must've been open. It is of course a possibility that the criminal knocked on the door and Cooper let him in himself, but I don't think that's very likely.'

There was a short silence and Sherlock smiled again, 'I think you're absolutely right.'

John bit his lip and looked up at Sherlock. 'The thing is, though, there's one thing missing… You said so yourself, if he had been abducted, he'd be killed. If he could convince us that he's dead, we'd stop looking for him and he would never become a suspect.' John paused and looked up at Sherlock who was still standing in the middle of their flat, eyeing John with nothing else but amazement in his eyes. 'Doctor Watson,' he whispered, 'There's nothing left to teach you, I'm afraid.'

John's cheeks flushed for a second time and he giggled nervously at the compliment. Sherlock smiled and put his arm around John's waist. The shorter man looked up at his boyfriend before he closed his eyes. Sherlock leaned in, and just before his lips touched the other man's, his phone rang. He sighed and pulled away, but held John close. 'Sherlock Holmes,' he said abruptly when he answered. John listened intently and heard vaguely heard Molly's voice. 'You were right,' she said in her high voice, 'The blood does belong to David Cooper.'

'Good, what else?' Sherlock asked her.

'It's five, maybe six days old.'

'Yes, so the blood was spilled the day Cooper disappeared. Excellent, thank you, Molly.'

Sherlock was about to hang up, but before he could press the right button he heard Molly's voice exclaim, 'No wait, there's more!'

'I'm listening,' Sherlock said, pressing his mobile closer to his ear, curious about the rest of Molly's news.

'We found cells in his blood which indicate that Cooper's wound was made in his hand.'

'His hand, you say? Interesting. Alright, thank you.'

'No problem,' Molly's voice sounded, 'Bye…'

Sherlock didn't reply and hang up. 'So, we're looking for a man who made a cut in his own hand and then smeared the blood on his wall. Neat.'

John chuckled. 'I'll go and make us some tea, he said, 'You go and think. There has to be a way to find Meredith's father.'

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and let go of John, who immediately moved towards the kitchen. Half way the room, he turned around and gestured Sherlock to sit down in his chair. A bit hesitantly Sherlock turned around, he didn't want to think. He wanted John. But, he decided, there was probably no point in arguing with him, so he just did as he was told and walked towards his chair. As soon as he had turned his back to John, the doctor sneaked up on him and then quickly patted the detective's butt. Sherlock spun around in surprise. 'John!' he shouted indignantly. John chuckled deviously at the look on his boyfriend's face. Sherlock smiled but then frowned and, pretending to be angry, said; 'You're going to pay for this you little – hey!'

John took Sherlock by surprise for a second time when he turned around and ran off, still laughing loudly. He stumbled up the stairs, to his own bedroom, which he hadn't visited in a while. He laughed even harder when he heard Sherlock follow him. 'Get back here!' The detective bellowed from downstairs, but when John didn't reply he rushed after him. Even though John had closed the door behind him when he had entered his own room, he hadn't blocked it with anything and Sherlock had no trouble barging in. He found his boyfriend standing in the middle of the room, smiled at him teasingly for a while and then, without thinking, tackled him. They landed on the bed, Sherlock on top of John, both roaring with laughter. 'Like I said, you're going to pay,' Sherlock whispered while leaning in, his mouth no more than an inch away from John's. The doctor simply chuckled in reply, and answered, 'I can't say that I care…'

'You should,' Sherlock whispered, pinning John down on the bed. John, who was still feeling rather bold, lifted his hand from Sherlock's neck and slapped the detective's butt again, a bit harder than before. He chuckled in delight as he heard Sherlock gasp while his muscles tightened.  
John left his hand where it was, and put his mouth to Sherlock's ear, whispering, 'Come on. Make me pay.' His lips touched Sherlock's ear. 'I want you to make me pay.'  
Sherlock didn't answer, but smirked and leaned in. He breathed in John's neck for a while before he kissed him. He put his arms around him and felt John respond willingly, an arm on his back. The other was still on his butt, be he decided to leave it there; the tingling sensations the touch caused felt rather pleasant. He was just kissing John, nothing more. He wanted his revenge, though, but took it slow just to tease him. John was still resisting; he felt him grin against his mouth and he felt his teeth softly biting his lower lip. He pulled back slightly and looked at his boyfriend.

'John.'

John looked back with a daring look, but his cocky attitude soon melted when he saw the look in Sherlock's penetrating eyes. The pale green eyes were staring at him determinedly, without a blink. John knew he could never say no to those eyes; he almost seemed to get lost in them. He could stare into the bright green and the occasional flash of blue and even brown forever. 'Oh, my God…' he whispered, gaping at his boyfriend the detective. Sherlock grinned and closed his eyes again, leaning forward. He had taken over control again just by looking at John. He breathed in John's neck again but quickly pulled back after that, getting up from the bed.

'What the –? Sherlock, get back here…' he said, starting to get up as well. Sherlock, however, placed one hand on his chest and pushed him back down. He continued to look at him and John had no other choice but to look back – his eyes were too compelling. Sherlock's expression was serious, though there was a hint of an amused smile playing around his lips. John chuckled and threw his head back when Sherlock started to slowly unbutton his own shirt. John shook his head, but could not look away. Sherlock was making him pay, alright. By letting him watch Sherlock's muscles come into view one by one without doing anything – Sherlock wouldn't let him if he tried. John's eyes showed nothing but hunger when he looked at the detective undress; his fists were clenched around the sheets; his mouth was slightly open and he was breathing a bit louder than he would have wanted. A small moan escaped his lips when Sherlock reached the end of his shirt and pulled it off entirely, revealing his muscled chest. Sherlock looked so hot, just standing there in front of the bed, in nothing but his trousers.

Sherlock chuckled at John's reaction. 'Nothing you haven't already seen before,' he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. He continued to look at John, who was still staring at him with wide eyes. He tried to speak, but only a string of unintelligible words came out. He closed his mouth, cleared his throat and tried again. 'Sherlock, I… wow,' he mumbled at last. He shook his head in amazement, his eyes taking in every bit of Sherlock's body. He gaped at the sight of Sherlock's tensing muscles when the man stretched nonchalantly, still chuckling happily. 'Sherlock, if you don't get over here right now, I swear I'll – ' John began, unconsciously leaning forward and closing his eyes as a shudder came over him. But Sherlock had already walked around the bed and got on the other side. A bit too late, John felt the mattress sink behind him and he made a move to turn around, but the warm feeling of a bare chest pressed to his back stopped him. He felt breathing in his neck again when two strong arms folded around him, drawing him closer. He tilted his head back, trying to see Sherlock's face. Sherlock pressed his lips to John's cheek, muttering in his ear; 'Is there something you'd like to say, soldier Watson?'

John shivered, feeling the light brush of Sherlock's lips against his ear. He almost forgot to reply. 'I…' he began, eyes closed, his thoughts drifting off to Sherlock's hands, which had moved upwards across his chest and started unbuttoning his shirt. 'I love you,' he finally said, twisting his neck in order to look around and kiss his boyfriend. Sherlock chuckled and pulled back quickly, his hands tilting John's face to the left, so he could kiss him a bit easier, while he could continue opening his shirt. John laid his hands on Sherlock's chest, part of his back still touching it. Sherlock finally succeeded in taking John's shirt off and threw it on top of his, his hands immediately around John's chest again. He gently started moving back and carefully laid John down on the pillows. 'Must be a little hard for your neck,' he muttered while lying down beside him, his hand on John's waist.

'I don't care,' John answered truthfully. 'The only thing I care about at the moment is you.'

'Shut up,' Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. He didn't really believe John.

'Sherlock, I'm serious!' John said. He put his hand on Sherlock's cheek and leaned in while pulling his face closer. 'Nothing matters to me but you.' Sherlock saw the sincerity in his eyes and heard it in his voice. He smiled, gave John a quick kiss and sat up to take his shoes off. John did the same and crawled under the sheets – it was bedtime anyway. He noticed it was exceptionally cold in the room; he hadn't been there a lot over the past few weeks, and the heating was out. He didn't mind, though – it gave him an excuse to snuggle extra close to Sherlock.

Sherlock's arms were invitingly open, and he moved over to lie beside him, his head on his shoulder. Sherlock put his arms around him again and lowered his head to make it easier for John to reach. 'Yeah, I definitely love you,' John whispered just before their lips met. 'I love you, too,' Sherlock replied, his hand moving down from John's waist to his hip, tickling the skin with his fingertips. 'Time for my revenge,' he added, softly slapping John's butt like he had done. He moved his hand further down and slid it between John's thighs, while still kissing him slowly.

'I thought you had already started that a while back,' John mumbled breathlessly against Sherlock's mouth.

'Oh no, that was just teasing.'

'Then what was that undressing for, Sherlock? Torture?' John asked, his hands still on Sherlock's cheeks. 'And this is not teasing?' he added when Sherlock's hand started to rub up and down his legs.

'Yes, it is. But it's still part of my little game,' Sherlock whispered. 'Now shut up.'

'Yes...'

'Yes, _sir_,' Sherlock replied. He was surprised he managed to say that without even a giggle. He traced John's collar bone with his right hand, still intrigued by the scar.

'Yes, sir,' John chuckled, a picture of Sherlock in the army immediately forming in his head. A wave of heat suddenly rolled over him. His hands moved down Sherlock's neck to his arms, and John imagined those arms holding a machine gun, or maybe carrying heavy loads, or perhaps even tending to the wounded and sick, like he had done. Not entirely away of it, he kissed Sherlock a bit harder.

'Well, soldier Watson,' Sherlock sniggered. 'What's got you all up and running?'

'Nothing, I… I just figured out what you like about me in the army so much,' John said with a blush. He swore under his breath – he would never be able to get his blushes under control. 'I hate blushing,' he grumbled, burying his face in Sherlock's chest. 'Why?' Sherlock asked. 'I think it's rather sweet.' He stopped his pay-back for a while and put his hands around John, playing with his hair.

'Sweet?' John asked in disbelief, frowning against Sherlock's chest. He thought it was stupid – but then he remembered Sherlock's pink cheeks when he blushed and a smile immediately formed around his lips. He loved the contrast between the paleness of his skin to the heated colour of pink around his cheekbones. He loved the sparkle in Sherlock's eyes when it happened.

'Yes. You're sweet; do you need me to say it again?' Sherlock's low voice was serious, though John could detect a little smile.  
'If I'm sweet, what does that make you?' John whispered, a smile on his face while he played with the tip of Sherlock's nose with his index finger.

'An idiot?' Sherlock guessed.

'I was rather thinking "adorable". Which do you prefer?'

'Opposing "idiot", I'd rather go for "adorable". Though you can call me anything you like: "resourceful", "dynamic", "enigmatic"…' Sherlock smiled at the memory.

'Hot, sexy, gorgeous,' John added in a mumble.

'Sorry, what?' Sherlock asked, his cheeks already turning pink, even though there was a teasing smile on his face.

'You heard me,' John said, curling his hands around Sherlock's lower back. He felt the detective shudder beneath his touch and crawled closer to him, so their chests touched, which made them both shiver. Sherlock moved his hand back down and continued where he had left off at John's thighs. John rubbed down from Sherlock's back to the edge of his trousers, and slid the fingers of both his hands in – Sherlock's hand on his leg trembled – while he himself shivered at Sherlock's touch. John tickled Sherlock's buttocks underneath his trousers and giggled when he realised what he was doing – and when Sherlock's other hand started to pull his face forward. Sherlock kept his hand firmly around John's neck and jaw, and kissed him intensely. It was a very passionate kiss, and both men were taken up in the action, stroking and touching the other while being stroked and touched in return. Their kiss left them both breathless, though they did not want to stop to catch their breaths. Neither one of them was submissive now, they were both trying to please the other as much as possible.

Sherlock's hand slowly stroked upwards, just at the same time John's hands moved a bit further down Sherlock's pants, and they both gasped for breath as they paused their kiss. They were struggling to keep themselves from losing control, though they both found enough strength to keep going and soon they were panting heavily into each other's neck, no longer kissing. One of John's hands slipped out of Sherlock's trousers and traced a line across his back to his shoulder, where he followed his collar bone and moved downwards again, tickling the skin around his bellybutton and ending up at his thigh, where he started to mimic Sherlock's movements. Sherlock felt the need to do something with his other hand as well, since John's was still on his butt, and he decided to just place it on John's chest. He flattened it out just as John – and he, as well – made a slow move upwards and shifted towards the inside of his thigh. He clenched his teeth, but as his movements mirrored John's, he heard John moan quietly and he couldn't keep himself from grunting as well. He curled his fingers, not noticing his fingernails dug into John's chest – John's fingers in the back of his trousers spread as well, when they felt the same wave of heat and pleasure run over them. 'John…' Sherlock muttered.

'Sherlock,' John whispered in response.

'You are amazing, John,' Sherlock sighed.

'I love you,' John just said, followed by a loud moan. 'Oh God… Yes, that's – Jesus, Sherlock…'

'Love you too,' Sherlock muttered. It was the nearest thing he could manage and make it understandable for John. His breath became heavier and heavier and suddenly, he cried out. 'John! God, John. I…'

John moved his hands to Sherlock's face and stroked his cheekbones, looking him in the eyes. He stayed like that until they both calmed down and breathed a bit steadier. Sherlock moved his own hand to John's hair and started stroking it, staring back at his boyfriend. He smiled.

'I do love you, you know,' John whispered, not breaking eye contact.

'And I love you,' Sherlock said truthfully.

John grinned and nestled his head beneath Sherlock's shoulder. He closed his eyes and fell asleep while listening to the steady heartbeat of the tall detective, who, for once, felt tired himself. Putting his worries and thoughts aside, Sherlock closed his own eyes and drifted off immediately.

* * *

John woke in the middle of the night. At first, he felt a little bit disorientated; he had grown accustomed to Sherlock's bed over the past few weeks. He rested his head back in the pillows and frowned. He had been dreaming about Afghanistan again, though it hadn't been particularly bad. With scarlet cheeks – he was glad Sherlock couldn't see them – he remembered his dream.

He was back in the army, though this time, he wasn't alone. Sherlock accompanied him in the medical team. John grinned when he remembered they had been sharing a sleeping roll.

John felt that he might have been able to cope with everything a bit better, had Sherlock really been there with him. But what's happened has happened and I turned out fine. I turned out great, he thought with a smirk on his face, looking at the top of Sherlock's head, which rested on his chest. The detective's left arm stretched across John's body and his right was used to rest his head on. John could see his face – he lay with his face to John – and he couldn't stop staring at it. Sherlock's features were soft, his frown lines smoothed out. His lips were slightly parted and he could hear his breathing. He smiled at the sound and closed his eyes again. He loved a sleeping Sherlock; it was something he never saw.

His hands were on Sherlock's head, stroking the dark curls. The soft humming of Sherlock's breathing was nice to listen to, and soon John's eyelids drooped down again. His dream continued where it had left off.

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes. He felt hands in his hair and the steady rhythm of a heartbeat against his cheek. He smiled when he realised he was lying across John's chest. He glanced at the alarm clock next to John's bed and suppressed a moan when he saw it was already half past nine. Too late for his liking.

John was still sound asleep. Sherlock carefully moved his arms and manoeuvred out of his position, without waking John up. He looked at his boyfriend and decided he would sleep for a while. Sherlock moved to the edge of the bed and looked down at his chest – it was still bare. Chuckling quietly, he went to pick up his shirt from the floor, hanging John's over the foot's end of the bed. He darted out of the room to go to the bathroom and make himself some coffee. He spotted the toaster when he waited for the coffee machine to get ready and shrugged, opening a cupboard and drawing out some bread. He put it in the toaster and filled two cups of coffee. Sherlock leaned against the counter, waiting for the toaster to warm up. He ran a hand through his hair when he thought about John. He could not prevent a smile appearing on his face or his cheeks from turning slightly pink. He glanced towards the ceiling, knowing that his boyfriend was sleeping peacefully.

Perfectly timed, obviously, he spun around just as the toaster was ready. He got out a plate from another cupboard and a tray, putting the toast on it. He pursed his lips, thinking about what John would want on them. He rolled his eyes; jam, of course. Sherlock opened the fridge and reached for the jar of jam, ignoring the toes that were stuffed away beside the cheese. He frowned – they were out of butter. Shrugging, he pulled out a drawer and picked up a knife.

He threw the dirty knife into the sink and picked up the tray, on which a plate of toast and two mugs of coffee now stood. He sighed as he realised the drawer was still open and he gave it a push with his hip.

He hurried around the kitchen table and up the stairs, back to John's bedroom. He walked around John's bed – he was glad to see John hadn't moved – and sat down carefully. He placed the tray on his lap and took the time to look around John's room. He hadn't paid much attention to it before, and now it almost seemed stupid.

It took about half an hour before John started to stir. Sherlock looked sideways expectantly and greeted his boyfriend with an exuberant smile as he opened his eyes.

'I made toast and coffee,' he said, holding out the tray.

'Good morning to you, too,' John muttered, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He smiled back when he saw Sherlock's unbelievably happy face. He sat up and Sherlock immediately crawled closer, putting an arm around him. John reached for his cup. He wondered whether Sherlock knew it made him so happy that he took the time and effort to make him breakfast.

'I like your bed,' Sherlock mused. 'Nice and springy.'

John almost choked on his coffee. He gulped it down and began giggling, grabbing a piece of toast to hide himself behind.

Sherlock laughed out loud at John's pink cheeks. The doctor was nibbling on the piece of toast, leaning against his boyfriend's chest. He realised Sherlock had already put his shirt back on and that he had hung his over the edge of his bed. Trying to be subtle, he pulled the sheets up to his chin. Sherlock chuckled again as he reached for his cup, not eating anything as usual. He pulled John a bit tighter against him and they ate – and drank – in silence together.

'Your head's getting better,' said Sherlock, while examining the bruise on John's head.

'I feel fine,' John confirmed. 'Let me see yours.' He moved around and gently felt the bump with his fingers. He brushed the dark curls away and studied it carefully.

'And?' Sherlock said, grinning at John's sensitive touch.

'You're fine, I suppose,' said John. 'It doesn't hurt?'

'Not anymore, no.'

'So it did hurt, then?'

'I must admit that it did, yes. Just a little bit.'

John smirked. He gave Sherlock's head a small kiss and got up, reaching for his shirt. He knew Sherlock was eyeing him from behind, but he forced himself to keep looking ahead. He jumped up from the bed and turned around, facing an amused Sherlock.

'What?' he asked, backing towards the door.

'Nothing,' said Sherlock, getting up as well. He carried the tray back downstairs, where they found a bewildered Mrs Hudson.

'Oh boys, there you are!' she exclaimed. 'I thought you'd be in your bedroom,' she said, looking at Sherlock.

'We would be,' he answered. 'But John and I were a bit distracted.'

'Ah,' she said, not looking uncomfortable at all. 'Well, I wanted to tell you – Inspector Lestrade's been on the phone, he said you weren't answering.'

'Yes. I turned it off; John did as well, right?' The doctor nodded. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson.'

She shook her head. 'It doesn't matter, really. He said to let you know he had called, and that you were expected at Scotland Yard as soon as possible.'

Sherlock nodded. 'Well then, John. Let's go,' he said, saying goodbye to Mrs Hudson while he grabbed his coat and put it on, followed down the stairs by John. John shouted a quick "thank you" to Mrs Hudson and caught up with his boyfriend just in time for a cab to pull over. They got in quickly and were off to the next part of their investigation.

* * *

Sherlock strode through the halls of Scotland Yard, his coat billowing behind him. His steps were long and John had to hurry to keep up with him. Sherlock's arms waved beside him as he walked and his gaze was fixed upon the end of the hall.

'What do you think they found out?' John wondered out loud.

'We'll find out soon enough,' said Sherlock.

Lestrade greeted them when they reached his office and he beckoned them inside. 'Good you came over so quickly,' he said. 'We have found a body.'

'A body?' Sherlock asked. 'Is this linked to our current investigation?'

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. 'Yes, it's – '

'John and I have taken a look around Cooper's house and confirmed he was not abducted; in fact, he has stolen the documents and ran off with them.'

'But…'

'But how do we know he wasn't abducted elsewhere?' Sherlock said sarcastically. 'There was a broken vase on the ground, which was suspicious considering it was the _only _vase in that house. And there was blood on the wall, but at an impossible spot; closer inspection revealed there were indications the blood came from his hand. Conclusion; he stole the documents, faked his abduction and ran off before anyone saw him.'

Lestrade was baffled, but he blinked as he remembered what he was supposed to say. He looked smug when he spoke his next words.

'Then how do you explain the body is David Cooper's?'

* * *

**Another mistery at last. We're curious to see your opinion on the matter - how DO you explain the body is David Cooper's? Pleas elet us know your thoughts on everything; the writing, the case, the Johnlock, the plot. Helps us write, definitely :D  
We'd like to apologise. If any of the names of the victims in this fic so far happen to be the same as yours. :) Names are hard, though.  
Ahm... is there anything more.. OH YEAH!  
It's not that we forgot or anything, but we haven't mentioned the wonderful LondonFan in an Author's Note yet (she's on our introduction, though) who is currently translating our story into German. Big thanks to her!  
And to you, for reading! :)**


	17. Chapters 33 and 34

**33. A False Corpse**

It was the first time John had really seen Sherlock gaping at Lestrade, a gobsmacked expression on his face.

'No, that can't be,' he said.

'It is,' Lestrade answered. 'Everything checked out, DNA, dental records…'

'I want to see him,' Sherlock said. He had a suspicion it was not David Cooper, it couldn't be. 'We've seen faked deaths before, Greg,' he said. 'What if he thought we were still under the impression he was abducted? He's rich, and we've seen this kind of approach before – Irene Adler? She got in touch with the record keeper, Cooper probably blackmailed or paid him. He could easily have provided a body and made it look like him.'

'Why can't he be just abducted and killed? Those documents were important and worth a lot of money, after all,' Lestrade shrugged.

'Because we _know _he wasn't abducted! There were clear signs – '

'Okay then, how do you know he wasn't caught when he was on the run with those documents?'

'He's a rich and powerful businessman. Surely he'd have security and other precautions.'

Lestrade frowned. 'Either way, there still is a body on the slab in Saint Bart's. I suggest you go and see what you can make of it. We still have to find those documents… Mycroft's been quite clear.'

'Yeah, we'll go there – wait, Mycroft? Mycroft's contacted you?'

'Yeah, he has,' Lestrade answered with that cocky attitude he had when he thought he had control over Sherlock. Too bad he never did, John thought. He blushed when he realised he was the only one with complete control over Sherlock. 'He thought we should keep an eye out on you, to make sure you are busy with the case instead of… other things,' he said, glancing at John.

Sherlock chuckled. 'Let's pay that body a visit, John. Ready?'

'As ready as I'll ever be,' John replied. He shot Lestrade a smile before he followed the detective out again.

It was cold on the streets and even Sherlock pulled his coat tight around him. He saw John shivering and put an arm around his shoulders, rubbing his arm, attempting to warm it. John smiled and they searched for a second cab to take them to the hospital.

* * *

'He was found a few hours ago,' Molly said. 'I did his autopsy. He was killed by a single blow to his head, which is also why his face is a bit messy.'

'Has his daughter already confirmed it's him?'

'No, she's supposed to come within half an hour,' Molly answered, as always a bit nervous in Sherlock's presence.

'She must know something. This cannot be David Cooper. It just wouldn't make sense.'

'Why not?' Molly asked curiously. John had wanted to ask that question himself, but didn't, afraid Sherlock would call him an idiot.

'Because there were clear signs he had faked his own abduction. As a powerful man in the government, he would be able to take reasonable precautions so he wouldn't be caught. And if he _had _been abducted, the abductors would not have waited this long to kill him because he probably had the documents on him.'

John nodded. It was what he would have made of it. He heard the door open and turned around just as Meredith Cooper came in, accompanied by Donovan. She gave them a hateful look, though lately there had been an accepting spark underneath. Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement and turned his attention to Meredith.

'Is this your father?' he asked a bit bluntly.

'Manners, Sherlock,' John whispered in his ear. Meredith started crying as she saw the body on the slab and covered her face with her hands.

Sherlock sighed. _Do I have to?  
_  
John raised his eyebrows and cocked his head towards the sobbing woman. _Yes. Now go and be a human being.  
_  
Sherlock shrugged and walked towards Meredith. 'Listen,' he said softly. His beautiful low voice made the woman look up and John felt a twitch of jealousy. He despised himself for it and bit his lip. 'This might not be your father. We think he stole the documents and hid somewhere, and faked his death to make us think he's not a suspect. Is there something on his body by which you can identify him?'

Meredith looked shocked. She didn't reply to his accusation of her father, though John could see it hurt her. She nodded and said, 'A big mole at the underside of his right arm.'

Sherlock grinned. That would be an easy thing to overlook; Cooper had probably had it all his life, he'd have grown accustomed to it. The thought of identifying him by his mole wouldn't even have crossed his mind.

Molly hesitantly lifted the body's right arm and smiled when there was no mole. Sherlock couldn't hide a smug grin and dialled Lestrade's number. 'Lestrade,' he said when the detective inspector answered his phone. 'It's not David Cooper. Keep looking for him, he must be somewhere with the documents on him. In the meantime, John and I will have a look at this body and try to find out if there's anything on there that will lead us to his whereabouts.' He hung up the phone before Lestrade could reply and bent over the body once more, getting out his magnifying glass.

'Where to start?' John mused, moving over to stand next to Sherlock. He had never really understood any of Sherlock's scientific research, but he thought he might be able to help out anyway.

'The clothes,' Sherlock said, pointing towards the clothes of the dead man, hanging nearby.

'Why the clothes?' John asked. Donovan shot them a wary look, as if she still wasn't sure she trusted the consulting detective with an important investigation, but she knew she had been wrong about him abducting those children and she decided to let them go. She did actually rather like John, and secretly she thought they made an adorable couple. She smiled a bit hesitantly when she escorted Meredith out and John waved in return.

'The clothes – I can be ninety-nine percent sure they are David Cooper's. They look a bit torn and ragged, but that's what you would expect from a violent abduction, right? I think he went to great measures to have us believe he's been murdered. He would use his own clothes if he needed to.'  
'Yes,' said John slowly, 'But I don't see how we're going to extract his whereabouts from his clothes.'

'Well, obviously he packed in a hurry. He took some clothes with him, I presume, though he did so in a clean way – after all, we should be under the impression he was kidnapped. A messed up closet would not help with that scenario. I also think he thought of faking his death when he was well on his way; he would not have had a lot of time to think that through before he disappeared. He contacted the DNA-record keeper and got him to fake the records on a body that looked remarkably like him – or they made it look that way. They obscured the face, so Meredith wouldn't instantly realise it was not him. They had to dress the body as well, and the only clothes they could use where the ones he was carrying with him.'

'So, you're looking for traces on the clothes that might tell us where Cooper is now?'

'I suppose it's a long shot, but it's all we have,' Sherlock replied. 'Where was he found?' he asked Molly, who was watching them rather nervously. She jumped at the sound of her name and said, 'On the side of a road.'

'Interesting…' Sherlock muttered.

'What is?' John and Molly asked at the same time.

'In London?' Sherlock asked next. Molly nodded. 'Somewhere in the outskirts, though. Not many people passed by at night, so the body was found in the morning.'

'What's interesting about that?' John asked.

'I'd expected him to put his supposed body in a classier place, not just by the side of a road. Wouldn't you agree?'

John shrugged. 'It won't help us find Cooper.'

'I don't know, maybe. We have to take everything into consideration. It will be hard to find him, for he might have switched country in the last six days. I don't think so though, because he has stolen those documents with a reason. Eventually, he will try to blackmail the government and in order to do that, he will have to stay here and build up a plan…'

'Either way, he could still be at the other side of Britain,' John said.

'Something tells me he's not,' Sherlock said.

'What does?'

'Trousers,' Sherlock said, pointing at the end of the black sleeves. 'There's mud on there, though angled at an impossible way for someone who'd been walking. No, I think the body had been dragged – I estimate one person; Cooper himself. He wouldn't trust anyone else with such a delicate matter.'

'Why does that mud tell you he's still in London?' John asked.

'We drive and walk around London all the time. I can't help noticing construction workers on the side of the road.'

'How are you sure it's the same mud?' John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock was really pushing it this time.

'Oh please, John,' Sherlock snorted. 'That's obvious, isn't it? I know that by _looking_.'

John rolled his eyes but dropped the subject anyway; he did not want to get into a fight with Sherlock over something so irrelevant. 'What more?'

'It will be pointless searching for fingerprints, though he wasn't as thorough as we'd expected him to be,' Sherlock muttered. He bent down and plucked a light hair from the dead man's shoulder. 'If we can confirm this is his hair, we can confirm he's still around. If he'd wanted to leave London, he'd already have done so.'

'It's the same colour as Meredith's,' John said, remembering Meredith's bright red hair. 'Is this enough to go on?' Sherlock shot him a look that gave John goose bumps. 'All right,' he muttered. 'Noted.'

* * *

John watched Sherlock, who was looking through the microscope in the lab. He looked so incredibly concentrated as he compared the cells in the hair to Cooper's DNA. John did not really know what he was looking for, but he knew he liked watching Sherlock doing his research.

He saw a broad grin appear on his face as the DNA in the hair checked out to one taken from a comb they had found in Cooper's bathroom. 'We can't trust the records now, you see,' Sherlock had said.

'It's his, then?' John asked. He lifted his head from his hands, the position in which he had watched Sherlock.

'Yes,' Sherlock answered. 'I admit it's not solid proof, but we now have reason to assume he is still around.'

'It's a start,' John mumbled, getting up from his chair. He walked towards Sherlock, who looked at him from his seat. John put his arms around Sherlock and hugged him, pressing small kisses to his head. 'I'm tired,' he muttered to Sherlock's hair.

'It's only three o'clock,' Sherlock chuckled. He turned around so he faced John and patted his lap. He smiled at his boyfriend and pulled him down. John giggled when he sat down on Sherlock's lap but kept his arms around the detective's shoulders.

Sherlock closed his eyes and hoped for a kiss. It was rarely John who kissed him, though this time it didn't take long before he felt the soft brush of John's lips against his. All thoughts of their investigation vanished from his mind as he placed his hands on John's cheeks and pulled him into their kiss with more urgency. John's fingers moved from his shoulders and locked themselves in Sherlock's hair. Just as Sherlock parted his lips the door opened and Molly came in.

'Did you make any progress –?' she began, but she stopped once she saw John on Sherlock's lap. Both Sherlock and John kept their lips pressed against each other but looked at Molly from the corners of their eyes, raising their eyebrows.

'I'll just… come back later, then,' she muttered while she made a rather awkward exit.

John smirked and closed his eyes again, continuing with the kiss. Sherlock did the same and soon they were so tightly pressed together they almost fell off the seat. John groaned as he heard his mobile phone ring. He sighed and moved back, but Sherlock's hands pulled his face back and pressed his lips against his again.

'Sherlock, my phone,' he murmured against Sherlock's lips. Sherlock sighed and let go, but he kept his hands on John's cheeks. 'Fine,' he muttered.  
John smiled weakly and wormed his hand in his pocket, getting out his mobile phone. He frowned as he saw it was Mycroft and answered it. 'John Watson,' he said, looking Sherlock in the eye. The detective pointed his ears and listened along.

'John, it's Mycroft,' came the soft but threatening voice of the other Holmes brother.

'Ah, Mycroft,' said John, raising his eyebrows as he continued to look at his boyfriend, his eyes inches away.

'How is your investigation going?'

'It's good,' John answered. 'Why don't you ask Sherlock?' Sherlock chuckled beside him and John smiled. He knew why, he just wanted to tease Mycroft a little bit.

'You know why I don't ask Sherlock. What have you found so far?'

'We think – no, we _know_,' he added when he saw Sherlock's eyebrow shoot up, 'That David Cooper took the documents for himself and ran off with them.' He explained the rest of their investigation and how they were reasonably sure he was still in London.

'How do you know he hasn't already run off, then? After he'd placed the body?' Mycroft asked. John frowned and looked at Sherlock for help. The detective sighed and held out his hand. John dropped the phone in it and put his arms around Sherlock again, resting his head against his chest.

'Because, _Mycroft_, he would not trust anyone else with the faking of his death and if he'd wanted to do that here and run off later, why would he have waited so long?'

'You tell me,' Mycroft sneered. 'So all you have to do is find him, then?'

'Yes. And once again, you are interrupting us.'

'With your investigation or something else?' Mycroft snickered. 'Good day, Sherlock.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes and hung up on his brother. He handed John his phone and started stroking his hair. 'He did interrupt us, actually,' he mumbled. John laughed and kissed Sherlock's neck. 'Let's go home then, and continue,' he whispered. Sherlock smiled and quickly pressed his lips to John's head before he followed the doctor out.

* * *

John decided to cook something for a change. He had no idea what though, and asked Sherlock what he liked. He hoped it was something he could make.

'Sherlock,' he began.

'Anything,' the detective answered without looking away from the board above the sofa, on which all of their clues to their investigation were pinned.

'What?' said John.

'Make us anything, I'll eat it.'

John shook his head in exasperation. He decided not to ask and turned his back again. Halfway towards the kitchen he turned around again. 'Is there anything you like? Anything you _really _like, so I know what to, you know…' He blushed. 'So I know what to make on a special occasion.'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he looked up from the clue-board for the first time since they got home. 'What kind of special occasion?' he asked, eyeing John suspiciously as he walked up to him.

'Erm…' John stammered. 'I don't know, your birthday? Our one-year anniversary, perhaps?'

Sherlock gleamed with happiness as he heard John say those words. 'Would you do that? For me?'

John nodded. 'Without a doubt.'

Sherlock's smile broadened and he bit his lip. 'Why wouldn't you just take me out on a date? Have a nice chat at Angelo's?'

'Because I think a home-made dinner is more romantic,' John answered, meeting Sherlock's eyes determinedly. Sherlock's face held more than amusement now; it also showed a deep expression of affection. 'There is something I like,' he whispered in his hoarse voice. He curled his long fingers around John's wrist and leaned in, his lips brushing against John's ear as he whispered, 'You.'

John chuckled quietly and tried to tell Sherlock that he was serious, that he really wanted to know what his favourite food was, but the doctor's voice trembled and his laughter came out shakily when he felt Sherlock's breath blow past his ear. Sherlock slowly pressed his lips against John's neck. He then carefully kissed the doctor's jaw a few times, before his lips found John's. John ran a hand through Sherlock's curls and the detective took a few steps forwards. John stumbled backwards and giggled nervously as his calves hit the sofa. Within seconds he toppled over and pulled Sherlock down as well. The taller man smiled as he studied the other man's face. His mouth was only a few inches from John's, and the doctor shivered when he felt Sherlock's warm breath against his lips. Sherlock sat up, putting his knees on either side of John's waist, before leaning down and kissing him again. John chuckled and kissed Sherlock with more enthusiasm, pulling him closer by his neck. Sherlock's lips curled into another smile and he pulled back again, grinning at John. John returned the grin, as he stared at his boyfriend, breathing heavily. 'You're cute,' Sherlock whispered softly. John frowned, not sure whether that was a compliment. 'Cute?' he asked curiously.

Sherlock chuckled and nodded, 'The way you're lying there, just looking at me. You look cute.'

'I am not cute,' John said, clearly annoyed. He frowned again and shot Sherlock an angry look. It made Sherlock laugh even harder.

'You are,' Sherlock stated as he leaned forward again and gently kissed him on his nose. John rolled his eyes and sighed. Sherlock shrugged, 'In a good way, though,' he teased. John shook his head, and shot Sherlock a look that definitely said 'you are really weird', but then he muttered, 'If you say so.'

Sherlock grinned and traced John's jawline with his fingertips. John shivered under his touch. Sherlock smiled at John's response and continued stroking his face softly, then moved his fingers down to his neck, tracing the muscles there. John shuddered again, then quickly pushed himself up a bit, leaning on his elbows. He pressed his lips against Sherlock's with a bit more force than before, and softly bit his lower lip. Sherlock gasped in surprise, but then quickly relaxed when he felt John's warm hands against his neck. He felt how the doctor slowly ran his fingers over his chest, quickly unbuttoning his shirt. It fell from his shoulders only moments later, and Sherlock gasped for a second time when he felt John's mouth against his chest. Planting small kisses right next to each other, the doctor worked his way up, until he reached the detective's neck. At first it were just his lips there, too, that kissed him, but after a while Sherlock felt John's teeth gently sink into his skin. Sherlock grunted involuntarily, to which his boyfriend grinned and muttered, 'Still think I'm cute now?'

With some difficulty, Sherlock managed to bring out a hoarse, 'Definitely,' before he let out another sigh as John's hand touched his leg and started stroking it.

As John's fingers ran up and down Sherlock thigh, the detective's lips found John's again. Sherlock arched his back, and didn't realise that John felt his fingers dig into his skin through his shirt. After another groan, Sherlock decided it was time for his revenge. This was supposed to be his game, anyway. He smirked at the thought. He felt John's hand on his bare chest, and realised John was still wearing his shirt.

It wasn't much later that John's shirt, too, landed on the floor… Sherlock softly bit John's lip as he rubbed the doctor's chest. John sighed, then gasped and pulled his hand away from Sherlock's thigh for just a split second, which was just enough time for the detective to get hold of John's wrists. He pinned both of them down to the sofa as he leaned in a little further to kiss the doctor's neck. John swore under his breath, but Sherlock just laughed. He loved how everything was a game to him – and how he hated losing. But John wasn't losing, he was stronger than Sherlock and without any trouble managed to free himself from the detective's grasp. His hands shot up to the detective's face and buried themselves in his hair. Sherlock ran his hands down John's chest, stroking it teasingly until he reached the edge of his jeans. John gasped when Sherlock's fingers curled around its edge. The taller man put his other hand on John's buttocks and he grinned when John grunted another time.

Just when Sherlock pulled away and was about to say something, his phone made a noise. He swore loudly, but got up from the sofa and picked his shirt up from the floor nevertheless. John, catching his breath, asked, 'Who is it?'

Sherlock got his phone out of the small pocket in his shirt and nodded absentmindedly. John repeated his question, though he didn't expect an answer. If it were of importance for the case, Sherlock wouldn't say anything anyway. Not before he had thought everything over for himself. Sherlock frowned as he read his text message and slowly walked back to the couch, absentmindedly putting his shirt back on. John sat up and, when Sherlock sank down on the sofa, leaned over his shoulder to see if he could make out who was texting his boyfriend. Normally John's unsteady breathing in his neck would've distracted him, but now, not even that could get the frown from his face.

John could tell the number was unknown. He couldn't make out the exact words on the screen though, and sighed. He got up and put his shirt back on as well, when he sat back down he stared at Sherlock's face for a little while longer.

He loved the man so much, and was concerned for him. 'Sherlock…' He muttered quietly, 'What do they text you?'

'It's my Homeless Network,' Sherlock replied briskly. He didn't add anything to it and John, once again, felt left out.

'We're working on this case together, Sherlock, remember? Tell me what it is.'

Sherlock shrugged and nodded, but the frown on his forehead didn't go away just yet. A little hesitant he muttered, 'I asked them to keep an eye out for Cooper, the Homeless Network…'

'And?'

'They spotted him.'

'That's great! Where?'

'Near the Houses of Parliament.'

'That's brilliant,' John exclaimed, 'Is he still there? Call Lestrade, we're going to catch him right now!'

Sherlock shook his head, 'I don't understand, though,' he whispered.

'Don't understand what?'

It took ages for Sherlock to reply. He bit his lip and closed his eyes for a while. When he sighed after a few minutes and finally opened his eyes to stare at the floor, John could tell that something was really wrong. Something in Sherlock's theories hadn't been right, perhaps? There was utter confusion in the man's eyes.

'Why?' he mumbled, 'Why didn't he go in hiding? Why so obvious?'

'How do you mean?'

'John, he's probably going to the Houses of Parliament to blackmail Mycroft right now.'

'So? We can just go and catch him.'

Sherlock shook his head, 'It's too obvious.'

**34. A Brotherly Reconciliation**

Sherlock had been sitting in his chair for over five hours, without saying anything. John had tried talking to him at first, but realised there was no point in that. The consulting detective wouldn't reply to anything, anyway. John had gone out to buy bread, jam, butter and milk and when he returned, Sherlock was still sitting in the exact position as he had been sitting in when the doctor had left.

John didn't understand what bothered Sherlock so much. They had called Lestrade and he was on his way to the Houses of Parliament, attempting to catch David Cooper, but somehow Sherlock seemed to know that they were going to fail.

* * *

_Why go to so much trouble?_ The detective asked himself. _Why go to so much trouble, if your plans are this obvious? Showing up at the Houses of Parliament to blackmail the government? I don't believe it. Something's not right. What did I miss?_

He closed his eyes and knew what he had to do. He had to go over everything again, in order to find out what they knew now.

_David Cooper; works for Mycroft, has one daughter but isn't married. Mycroft had documents he didn't want published, but David Cooper took those to blackmail him. Blackmail him? For what? Money? Probably. _

_Cooper faked his death, went to a lot of trouble in order to do so. Then, on the same day his body is found he shows up at the Houses of Parliament, in plain sight, apparently… It's too easy. They won't catch him. He has got to have a plan…_

He didn't know long he'd sat in his chair when he let out a scream of anguish. John, who'd been watching him from across the room, raised an eyebrow. 'What?' he asked, once again not expecting an answer.

'Cooper's got a second plan. Lestrade won't catch him!'

John shrugged. 'I know, Donovan called about two hours ago. They didn't catch him, didn't even see him.' John reported.

Sherlock eyes opened wide, 'Why didn't you tell me sooner?' he asked, annoyed.

'I did tell you,' John said truthfully. 'But you didn't bloody hear me.'

Sherlock frowned and immediately knew that his boyfriend was right. He got up from his chair and walked up to him. 'I'm sorry,' he whispered, and planted a quick kiss on his forehead. The little gesture made John feel warm inside and he smiled. 'My phone,' Sherlock muttered, 'Give me my phone.'

'It's in your pocket.'

John took a sip from the tea he had just made, and nearly spilled it over his pants when Sherlock accidently hit his arm as he took his phone out. 'Sorry,' the detective muttered as he dialled Lestrade's number.

It didn't take long before the DI picked up.

'Did you see him?' Sherlock asked, before even saying hello.

'Who?'

'Cooper. David Cooper, did you see him at the Houses of Parliament?'

'No, Sherlock what – '

'Listen to me. I need you to get Mycroft to the Yard.'

'Mycroft? What? Explain yourself.'

But Sherlock ignored Lestrade's final comment and hung up the phone. 'Come on John, he said, as he jumped up to get his coat.'

John didn't hesitate and followed his boyfriend right away. 'Sherlock,' he called out, hoping he would slow down a bit. 'I don't understand what is going on?!'

As they walked through Baker Street, Sherlock started to explain, talking even faster than he usually did when deducing. 'There are multiple fake David Cooper's. One of them is a dead body, the other one was sighted by my Homeless Network.'

'How do you know that last one's a fake, too?'

'Because he was gone before the police even arrived. He knew he'd be seen there. It was a diversion.'

'How do you mean?' John asked, trying to keep up. Sherlock signalled a cab over in the meanwhile and told the cabby to drive to Scotland Yard as fast as possible.

'While the police were all focused on the man at the Houses of Parliament, the actual David Cooper went to Mycroft's house.'

'How could you possibly know that?'

'It's Mycroft he wanted to blackmail, isn't it? So his negotiations had to be with him, then. Look,' Sherlock continued. 'This man, David Cooper, doesn't want to be seen. So in order to keep himself invisible, he uses other men to keep the attention from himself. He knew I would be on this case, since I'm Mycroft's brother, obviously. He knew that I would deduce that his dead body was a fake one, he knew I would find out that the man the Homeless Network saw wasn't actually him. But that didn't matter, in fact, I was supposed to figure all of that out! They're just distractions. He draws my attention to his look-a-likes, while he continues his plans!'

John didn't know what to say. It made perfect sense…

'But where did he get these two men then?'

'Oh, he could've gotten plenty more of them. Don't forget, he works for Mycroft, who is one of the most important people in the government, I do believe there are plenty people who want to sabotage him.'

'But what about the dead man? I don't think anyone would volunteer to die!'

Sherlock laughed. 'Of course not, but people would volunteer to kill, obviously.'

'And why did you want Mycroft to come to the station?' John continued his questionnaire.

Sherlock hesitated and fell quiet. 'I want to make sure he's alright. If I'm right and Cooper did come to his house, he might be... – ' Sherlock didn't finish his sentence, and he didn't have to, for John understood just what he meant.

'I'm sure he's fine.'

'Oh, of course,' Sherlock said, trying to sound reluctant, 'Plus, Lestrade will also need him as a witness. He needs to confirm our speculations.'

John snorted, '_Our_ speculations? I didn't do anything.'

Sherlock frowned, because he didn't understand. 'John,' he whispered, 'If only you knew…'

Now it was John's turn to look confused. 'If only I knew what?'

'How much you help me.'

Sherlock put one arm around John and pulled him a little closer. He brushed their lips together for a short while, then pulled back, leaving a broad grin on John's face.

* * *

A confused Mycroft and Lestrade were waiting for them at the Yard. Neither of them appeared to have a clue of what was going on, but Sherlock knew that Mycroft knew exactly why he was there.

Lestrade was sitting in the chair behind his desk. 'Now, Sherlock, will you please tell us what this is all about?' he asked, a stern look on his face which made John giggle.

Sherlock told Lestrade what he had just told John twice. One time in his clever quick voice, but when he realised Lestrade didn't quite follow him, he repeated the entire story again, slowly.

Mycroft didn't say a word the entire time, and didn't quite seem to know where to look. When Sherlock had finished the second version of his tale, he looked at his brother. 'Am I right?'

Mycroft's eyes narrowed, but then he nodded. Lestrade seemed surprised, 'So he just came to your house? Just like that?'

Mycroft nodded, 'He knocked at my door as if he were a friend. He threatened that he would publish the stolen documents in the paper if I didn't give him lots of money.'

'What did you tell him?'

Mycroft seemed really angry at Lestrade for asking the question, for the DI probably already knew the answer. Just like Sherlock and John did.

'I told him he would have it. I can't risk losing my job. England would fall.'

'England would fall?' Sherlock sniggered, 'You surely think much of yourself, Mycroft.'

Lestrade rolled his eyes at this and with a serious frown asked Mycroft whether he knew where Cooper had gone. Mycroft shrugged, 'The Strand Palace.'

'We'll track him down,' Lestrade said firmly and then he smiled at Sherlock, 'At least we're good at that.'

* * *

After Lestrade had taken all the notes he needed, Sherlock, John and Mycroft found themselves outside again. 'Well,' John began, 'we're taking a cab home. I suppose you have your own transport?'

Mycroft nodded, 'Yes, my driver will pick me up any moment now.'

There was a long silence, before Mycroft finally turned to his brother and sighed. 'Thank you,' he said after a while, 'For helping me.'

Sherlock nodded and forced a smile, 'Any time.'

'Really, Sherlock, I – '

'It's not like I saved your life. I saved your job, you're grateful. That's enough.'

Even though the words came out with a harsh undertone, John couldn't help noticing that Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged a look that said a lot. For just a split second, John thought he could see they were connected in some way. Actual brothers.

The moment was short, however, and before he knew it a cab stopped in front of them. The Holmes brothers exchanged a last look and said a short goodbye, before Sherlock and John got into the car and disappeared into the night.

* * *

'It's late.'

'How late?'

'Three o'clock.'

'So it's early then.'

'Sherlock…'

John was staring at the alarm clock in Sherlock's bedroom. They'd been lying in bed for over an hour already. Sherlock's arms were wrapped tightly around John's. They were both tired, even Sherlock, but didn't feel like sleeping. Sherlock pressed his lips against John's neck, the doctor smiled and closed his eyes. 'I'm tired,' he muttered.

'Then go to sleep.'

'I don't want to.'

'Yes, you do,' Sherlock knew. There was a long silence before John spoke again. 'What are we going to do tomorrow?' John asked, 'Are we going to help Lestrade catch Cooper?'

Sherlock shook his head, 'No, he can do that for himself. It'll be easy enough. I just helped him find the right criminal, the police will track him down. They'll probably catch him soon enough.'

John nodded and smiled, 'What _will _we be doing then?'

Sherlock's lips brushed John's ear and he bit it gently. 'Well, if the weather's as nice as today, we could just go out and do something. Go to Hyde Park, or take a stroll through the city. And if the weather's not nice, we could just stay here. Or go out and have dinner. Or, if you still insist, you could make dinner. Or, if we're lucky, there will be another good case for us to solve…'

There came no reply and Sherlock leaned forward to find that John's eyes were still closed. 'Are you sleeping?'

'Nrrgh…'

'What?'

John let out a soft snore, and Sherlock laughed. His boyfriend had fallen asleep. He snuggled a little closer to him, and kissed his cheek. 'I love you,' he whispered, 'So much.'

* * *

_'I love you,' Sherlock whispered. 'So much.' 'I know. Sherlock, I love you too,' John whispered back. 'I am sorry,' Sherlock continued. 'For what?' John asked. A tear ran down Sherlock's pale cheek. 'For leaving you.' 'You've never left me,' John whispered. 'You were always here.' 'I wasn't. You were alone. You were hurt. I let you suffer.' 'It's okay, Sherlock, I can live with it. It's not that bad.' 'It is bad.' More tears followed. 'No, Sherlock. You're not bad. You're good, you're my Sherlock. I trust you.' 'You shouldn't.' 'But I do. Can't you see? I've been through so much with you, _for _you, it doesn't matter to me anymore.' 'But it did.' 'You're good.' 'I'm not...' 'You are, Sherlock. You are good.'_

* * *

John woke with wet cheeks. He had been crying quietly and Sherlock had been stroking his face, holding him until it passed. He had been crying himself, for he didn't want to see John hurt. He had let him sleep though, and hoped his dreams would change when he muttered the words "I love you" over and over, and hugged him, and kissed the shell of his ear gently.

'John...' Sherlock's voice sounded sad. 'What's happened?'

John turned around and faced his boyfriend, eyes still gleaming with tears. 'You've got to let it go, Sherlock.'  
A frown creased Sherlock's forehead. He knew exactly what John was talking about. 'I can't,' he whispered.

'Yes, you can. Maybe not today, maybe not this year, but I'll help you. I won't go away.'

'I know you won't.'

'But you need to let it go, Sherlock. I won't be able to live knowing you're in such agony.'

'I...' Sherlock whispered. His voice broke. He tried to continue, but his throat wouldn't let him.

'Shh,' John whispered. He put a gentle finger to Sherlock quivering lips. 'It's okay. I'll help you. I love you.'

Sherlock didn't say anything, but let John hug him while he rested his head against his chest. He exhaled slowly and put his own arms around John weakly. John murmured soothing words in his ear and kissed his cheekbones lightly. Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled as he nestled himself closer to John's chest. They had nothing on the next day, they could lie in bed all day if they wanted. Sherlock pulled the covers up lazily and lifted his head a little bit. He breathed steadily in John's neck as the doctor kissed his jaw. A content smile spread across his face and, eyes still closed, he turned his head until his nose brushed John's. He felt John's soft breathing against his lips and he shifted even closer to John's warm body. He felt a warm hand against his cheek and still he didn't open his eyes. He knew what was coming and he wanted it. He parted his lips and sighed, and he felt that John's face was just millimetres from his. Sherlock still had his arms on John's lower back but he didn't remove them; he didn't do anything. He waited for John to make the move. Then, slowly and gently, he felt John's soft lips touch his ever so slightly and the corners of Sherlock's mouth curled into a little smile.  
John was softly stroking his cheek and jawline, his nose brushing against Sherlock's. Sherlock felt him breathing through his nose, but he wanted to feel John's breath against his lips, in his mouth. Sherlock opened his mouth against John's and sighed deeply, trying to find a way to kiss John deeper.  
John moaned softly in his mouth and opened his own mouth in return. Sherlock's full lips around his, his tongue moving so slowly, his teeth gently biting John's lips... John pushed Sherlock back on his back, shoved his head deep into the soft, white pillows without breaking contact. Sherlock was a good kisser, and John knew that he was partly responsible for that. Sherlock had admitted that John was the first person he'd ever kissed or had ever been kissed by, and John liked that. It gave him a certain feeling, one he could not really describe. It was almost as if he owned Sherlock, that Sherlock was his to kiss and touch and please, Sherlock was his to share his bed with, and no one else. He was the only one in the world to have experienced Sherlock's kisses, Sherlock's touch, Sherlock's body, Sherlock's feelings. He hummed in satisfaction, which resulted in an amused Sherlock. Sherlock looked at John with one raised eyebrow and a little smile around his full, kiss-swollen lips. 'What?' he asked teasingly, brushing the tip of his nose to John's. 'Is there something you'd like to say?'

'There's plenty,' said John. 'But now is not the time...'

'Always is the time,' Sherlock whispered. His fingertips traced the lines of John's parted lips. He smiled and looked up to the doctor. 'You like this, don't you?'

John raised an eyebrow. 'That's good, good deduction, yeah. Come on, Sherlock – why else would I be kissing you, then?'

'No, that's not what I meant. I meant... you like _this_, kissing _me_, and being the only. _Owning _me.'

John's jaw dropped and he looked into Sherlock's beautiful pale eyes in disbelief. 'How do you know that?' he stammered. 'The last part, me being the only...'

'John, you are so obvious,' Sherlock chuckled. 'You are like a book, all I have to do is pick you up and turn a page. I know you, John...'

'Well, if you really know me... Tell me what I want right now.'

'Tell you? Or show you...?' Sherlock whispered with a devious glow in his eyes. His hands curled around John's arms and he rubbed them slowly.

'Both,' John gasped. 'It's not only your body, you know... I love your voice.'

'Hmmm,' Sherlock hummed. 'Well; what you want right now...' he began to whisper, his lips brushing John's jaw. 'You want me to breathe in your neck. You want me to kiss you there, to drag my lips upwards to your jaw and plant a long line of small kisses there, eventually leading to your mouth. You want me to lick my lips and brush them across yours, wetting your mouth. You want me to open my mouth, you want me to breathe into yours, nip at your lips. And I add my own little touches... I drag my hands slowly up your arms...' Sherlock's hands followed his words. 'I caress your shoulders and interrupt our kiss to press my lips against your scar. From there, my lips travel back again, along the line of your collarbone. I wet my mouth and press a kiss in between them. I gently bite at the skin of your throat. My lips linger there for a while, kissing and licking, while my hands slide down across your back. I trace your spine and kiss that spot behind your ear. As my hands tickle the small of your back, I nibble your earlobe, roll it between my teeth. I breathe in your neck again. I press my lips to your ear, jaw, neck, forehead, temples, cheeks, nose, the corner of your mouth – and my hands slip underneath your trousers as I kiss your lips again. I open my mouth and explore yours, and I'll have you melting against me within seconds...'  
John was breathing heavily, his eyes closed, taken up in the fantasy. 'God, Sherlock...' he moaned. He didn't care that it was the middle of the night, he didn't care that he had been crying or that he was tired as hell – Sherlock was whispering hoarsely in his ear what he would to do to him, and actions followed his words. 'Sherlock...' John moaned again, 'your voice is so...'

'So what...?'

John shivered at the vibrations shooting through his neck and shoulders as the detective's lips tickled his skin. '_Hot_,' he managed to squeak out.  
'Yes, you like this, don't you...? Me, talking and whispering and muttering and moaning in your ear. I can feel your muscles tighten and relax, I can feel you shivering and I can feel goose bumps on your skin. With my hand on your chest, I can feel your heart beat fast, I hear your rapid breathing, your fists clenching around my shirt. My hands move up to your hair while you do the same, and your fingers lock themselves in my dark curls as I grab small tufts of your short, blond, soft hair. I pull you closer and our lips meet again, and I wind one leg around yours, keeping you captured against my long, lean body...'

'I don't want to escape,' John breathed.

'Neither one of us want you to escape,' Sherlock continued to whisper. 'I keep you close, rest the palm of my hand against your neck. With my thumb, I trace your jawline, while my other hand travels down along your shoulder, my fingertips exercise pressure on your skin as I move down and feel the strong muscles of your back.'

'Your fingers are so careful,' John whispered. 'My skin is so sensitive under your touch... And I kiss you back, Sherlock...'

'Hmmm...' Sherlock moaned against John's mouth. 'You kiss me back and it's wonderful. It makes me wonder why I haven't kissed you before, those amazing, soft lips of yours... Kissing you, feeling the wetness of your mouth against mine, our tongues sliding together...'

'Yes,' John panted. 'Kissing you is amazing, being with you is the most amazing feeling in the world, and I love you, Sherlock, I love your face, I love your body, I love your touch, I love _you_, I love you for who you are, no matter what other people say or think about you, because_ I _love you and no one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to kiss you.'

'John...' Sherlock sighed. 'How many times do I have to tell you that I. Love. You? I want you to be the only person to kiss me, and I want to be the only to kiss you. Just us. Kiss me.' It almost came out like a snarl, a quiet, possessive snarl.

John didn't need to be told twice; with an animalistic grunt, he threw himself back on top of Sherlock and crushed his open mouth to Sherlock's. His hands were all over Sherlock's shoulders, arms, chest and buttocks, and he pushed Sherlock further into the pillows. Sherlock kissed back with an incredible passion, his widespread hands pressing on John's back, both his legs hooked around John's body. John reached back with his hand and, with one finger, traced Sherlock's leg from his buttock to his thigh to the hollow behind his knee, which was curled around his back. Uncontrollable shivers shot through Sherlock and he tightened his grip on John, his hand forming a fist on the small of the shorter man's back. A long moan escaped his mouth and the sound was muffled against John's neck. He bit the skin there to keep himself silent and John winced at the slightly painful feeling, but Sherlock's mouth soon made up for that.

John glanced at the alarm clock beside Sherlock's bed and groaned at the sight of it. It really was the middle of the night, and he was snogging Sherlock. He tried to pull his mouth away from Sherlock's, but he found that Sherlock was kissing him so passionately and attentive, he didn't notice John's tugging. John smirked and bit down on Sherlock's lower lip, hard. Sherlock jerked back and raised an eyebrow. 'What was that for? I know I usually like it when you do that, but there is a limit...' Sherlock stopped when he saw John's face. 'Oh. Sorry... Go back to sleep, I've distracted you. You must be tired...'

'Thank you,' John whispered. He pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock's nose and snuggled beside him, his arms wrapped around Sherlock's. 'I love you,' he mumbled before he started snoring again.

* * *

**I'm getting really emotional XD There is only one chapter left after this one. We're currently busy writing a sequel, but I should warn you that our school starts next week and that the uploading of that might not be as quick as this one... Also we're writing another fic which will evolve around their domestic life with their son Hamish, I think that might be up here soon enough. But more about that and the sequel in the last Author's Note, at the end of the last chapter...**

**And an apology for some readers who might have expected some smut or a certain intimacy, but I suppose we don't feel particularly comfortable with writing that sort of thing. The closest I came up with is in my fic "Undisclosed Desires", but it won't be explicit and it won't happen in this story anymore. We have decided to let them go further in our sequel but we don't know how deep we'll go into that... **

**And finally, I'd like to thank all of you for reading, hope you review, and there's only one thing left to say... Until the last chapter (AND ONWARDS)! xx**


	18. Chapter 35

**35. The End of the Beginning**

Light had already filled the bedroom when Sherlock woke up. He shivered in cold; the sheets were on the other side of the bed and there was no John beside him. Confused, Sherlock looked up at the empty bed. Where was John? He racked his brain, trying to find out whether John had told him he needed to be somewhere, but he could not remember anything. He jumped up from his thoughts when he heard his mobile phone. He reached for it and read the text message John had sent him half an hour previously.

_Got a job interview today – forgot to tell you. I made you breakfast. Love you.  
JW_

Sherlock frowned. A job interview? Why would he need a job? Did he want some space from Sherlock? Sherlock shrugged, admitting they were a little behind on their rent.

_Good plan, a little money is never a bad idea. I miss you. This bed is cold without you.  
SH_

Sherlock smiled as he hit the "send" button. This was nothing like him, sending text messages like that. He did not care, though; John made him happy. He lay back down into the white, fluffy pillows and waited for John to respond.

_You're still in bed?  
JW_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Was that all John had picked up on, or was he just playing with him? Either way, Sherlock hastened to reply.

_Yes, and I miss you. I wish you could join me. In bed.  
SH_

There. That should do it.  
Sherlock pulled the covers up to his chin and rolled over. He was lazy, and he had every right to be. There was nothing on today, not a single case. He hadn't anticipated that John might be away for a big part of the morning. Sherlock sighed in boredom and glanced at his phone again.

_Sherlock! My interview's about to start, soon they'll think I have a permanent blushing syndrome or something.  
JW  
ps; I wish I could join you, too._

Sherlock smiled again. He pictured John with his adorable scarlet cheeks, looking down at his feet. Sherlock buried his face in the pillows as he waited for the giggles to die down. God, he had never giggled before in his entire life – John was infectious.

_Tell them your hot boyfriend is texting you. That should do the trick, I imagine.  
SH_

Sherlock decided to get dressed, and eat a little bit of that breakfast. There was no case to stop eating for anyway, though he would never admit to John that he was a little hungry.

_Sure, and they'll never hire me. They've only got weekend spots anyway, it's all just for the money... Oh, I've got to go, it's my turn. Will text when it's over.  
JW_

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't realised it had bothered him so much, that John had gone to a job interview without telling him. He replied quickly, hoping John would still be able to read it.

_Good luck. I love you.  
SH  
_

What to do in the meantime? He could continue with his experiment from last week – but that was almost finished and he wasn't really keen. He wouldn't go and look for a case, not without John, at least. Absentmindedly, he picked up his violin and started playing. He'd gone through five long, intricate songs before his phone buzzed again. Sherlock dropped his violin instantly and almost dived for it; it was on the armrest of his leather seat.

_Thank you. I've got the job, but like I said it's only weekend work. It won't take much of my time and I'll be able to go with you on our cases. I love you too.  
JW_

Sherlock pouted his lips. He didn't like the fact that John started working again, but he had to be honest with himself; their latest cases hadn't given them a lot of money and Mrs Hudson was already trying to talk to them about the rent. Sherlock's cheeks turned a very light shade of pink when he read the last four words and soon he was giggling again, a broad smile on his face. What was wrong with him that had him giggling like a schoolgirl? Sherlock shook his head and pressed the "reply" button. His fingers flew over the keys as he wrote down his thoughts.

_Good. I won't be able to live with the fact that you have to go to work every single day. I already miss you at the thought of it.  
SH_

_When will you be home?_  
_SH_

John sighed and rolled his eyes at the latest two texts of his boyfriend. Sherlock was such a possessive child sometimes; of course they needed money, they barely managed as it was. John deliberately applied for this job, since there was only room in the weekends. He knew that deep down, he wouldn't be able to be away from Sherlock all day. It would mean that he wouldn't wake up in Sherlock's arms, and that Sherlock would have to do most cases by himself. John shuddered; he didn't want to let Sherlock do all the dangerous stuff without him.

_In a bit.  
JW_

_Oh, no – it might take a while. I can see Mycroft's car. Damn that brother of yours.  
JW_

John sighed and walked up to the man that stood behind the black, shining car. 'Mycroft?' he simply asked. The man nodded and went inside the car. John rolled his eyes and got in as well. 'What is it he wants this time?' he asked. There was no reply, but John hadn't expected there to be one. His mobile phone buzzed and John looked, curious to see what Sherlock's response was.

_What does he want? I'll kill him if he hurts you.  
SH_

John's face showed a deep expression of affection when he'd read the message. Sherlock was worried about him, that much he could tell. John fought the urge to make a cooing sound, for that would just attract unwanted attention.

_Why would he hurt me? And thank you, by the way. I'll be fine, Sherlock._

_JW_

The reply came almost immediately, and John was getting uncomfortable from the stares that he got from the rear-view mirror. He didn't hesitate to text back.

_Because he feels the need to protect "his little brother". The papers are full of the news of us, perhaps he wants to have a word with you.  
SH_

_I'll be fine, Sherlock. I'm sure. Have you finished the toast I left you?_  
_JW_

Was that so? Was Mycroft concerned about Sherlock? Did he want to have a word with John, to make sure he was treating him well? John had difficulty believing it, but then, John wasn't the only one who had changed after Sherlock's "death". Mycroft had become aware of the fact that Sherlock was in fact his brother, that they shared the same name, the same DNA. Even through their little fight, feuds, disagreements, resentments, whatever they called it – they had a sort of bond, and Mycroft being the more human of the two (or so it had seemed to John before he had seen Sherlock's emotional side) would want his little brother to be alright, wouldn't he?

The car stopped and John turned off his phone. He wanted to focus on Mycroft, and Sherlock's texts would be distracting him. He'd turn it on as soon as he was in the car, back home.

John followed the familiar route to Mycroft's office and politely knocked on the door. The room was in total silence, as always – it unnerved John, to say the least – and the soft but threatening voice of Mycroft said; 'Come in.'

John came in and found Mycroft on one of the comfortable seats. The other was placed opposite him, obviously meant for John. John sat down and watched the front page of the newspaper Mycroft was holding. They were on it, a big collection of photographs taken from a few days ago to present day. John saw himself lying in the grass in Hyde Park with Sherlock on top of him, he saw them walking hand in hand on the streets, he saw them coming out of their flat, he saw them in a restaurant, occasionally kissing.

'What do you want?' John asked in a brisk voice. He knew Mycroft was reading the article about them.

'Well, John.' Mycroft folded the newspaper and laid it on the table beside him, next to a glass of red wine. 'I wanted to talk to you about my brother.'  
'Isn't that what we always do when you kidnap me like this? I've got a phone, Mycroft, as I've told you many times already.' John felt his cocky anti-Mycroft attitude rise again.

Mycroft grimaced at him disapprovingly. 'I want to make sure you are not distracting Sherlock from his work. And I want to know if you treat him well.'

John kept himself from rolling his eyes. 'Why don't you just ask Sherlock? He could provide a better answer.'

'I want to hear it from you, John.'

John frowned. 'Look,' he said, leaning forward, elbows on knees. 'That last case, with the stolen documents, was solved in two days. Thanks to us, you've still got your job. I agree, it might have gone a bit quicker if Sherlock and I weren't together, but you can't expect him to act like a bloody machine all the time. However unbelievable it might seem, your brother is a human being.'

Mycroft didn't know what to say; John had never been so angry at him, nor had he ever been so right.

'And to answer your second question, yes, I do treat him well. I've made him breakfast today and I have asked him just moments ago whether he has already eaten any of it. I force him into eating something when we go out, I take him to bed with me – to get enough sleep –' John was too angry to be annoyed by his own blush, '– I make sure he stays off his cigarettes, drugs and whatnot. I won't leave him alone when we're on a case because I don't want him to hurt himself. Understood?'

Mycroft nodded, taking a deep breath. 'John, I understand. But I never thought you'd be hurting him – '  
'Don't bother,' John said, starting to get up. He reached the door when Mycroft's voice came, soft and concerned; 'Do tell him that I care about him, would you?'

John stayed at the door, looking at the profile of Mycroft Holmes. His head was slightly tilted and his eyes were fixed on his newspaper, but John knew for sure that his grip was trembling. John felt a sudden pity for the man, after all he had lost his brother and now he turned out to be alive, there still didn't seem to be any development in their relationship.

'I'll tell him,' he answered softly before closing the door behind him.

* * *

_I've eaten them all, John. Wasn't much.  
SH_

John? Please reply, what does Mycroft want?  
SH

John...? John! Answer me right now!  
SH

That's it, I'm coming.  
SH

John swore and replied as soon as he read that last text. He smiled through his annoyance, for Sherlock's concerns were quite endearing. John already recognised the streets they were driving through and knew he'd be home soon. He hoped Sherlock hadn't already left the flat.

_No, Sherlock, it's fine. I'm already on my way home.  
JW_

John waited nervously for Sherlock's reply. When none came, he sighed and dialled Sherlock's number. _Oh, Sherlock..._

* * *

Sherlock was just grabbing his coat when his mobile phone rang. Impatiently, he picked it up and answered it. 'Sherlock Holmes,' he said curtly. It was Lestrade's voice that answered.

'Sherlock, listen to me. Can you and John come to the Yard as soon as possible?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes in utter frustration. 'As soon as possible is always possible. Probably won't be for another half hour or so, because my bloody brother has abducted John again!'

'As soon as possible is fine, Sherlock. It's just that...'

'You sound a bit distressed,' Sherlock interrupted him. 'Difficult day at work, I presume? What do you need for us to do, I might be able to prepare a little before John comes home...'

'You know that Joe Beck bloke? The killer in the Smiley Murders?'

'Yes,' Sherlock answered.

'Well, they let him out of prison yesterday, for he showed good behaviour and, well... the whole case was unfair against him anyway.'

'That's good news, Lestrade. What do you need us for, then? Do you need us as witnesses or anything like that?'

'No, no...' Lestrade sounded hesitant.

'Then what is it? You sound awful, Lestrade.'

'There's been another murder,' Lestrade managed.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. 'A murder?' he asked. Surely, not...?

'Yes. Found a few hours ago, same circumstances. Smiley carved in the victim's stomach. Since we caught the entire Riot Army during that Bach festival – except for Moran – '

'Moran can't have done it,' Sherlock answered abruptly.

'We know that. But it is suspicious that only a few hours after Beck has been released, another murder has taken place under the exact same conditions. Beck is our only suspect; we're looking for him now.'

* * *

John groaned and he pushed the "cancel call" button. Sherlock was already talking to someone – great. That never happened before. Maybe he had called Mycroft in anger and made things worse. John rubbed his forehead with his left hand in exasperation. He really hoped that Sherlock was still at the flat.

John practically jumped out of the car when they reached 221B. He burst through the door and hurried upstairs, and to his relief found Sherlock on the sofa, coat in hand. After a while, John noticed that something was wrong with him and he sat down next to the tall detective.

'Sherlock, is there something wrong?' he asked, his hand touching Sherlock's lightly. Sherlock didn't answer him but shut his eyes tightly. He shook his head and took John's hand. Finally, he met his eye.

'It's Joe,' he said, and his voice sounded strangled. Something was bothering him.

'Joe Beck?' John asked, surprised. 'Haven't heard from him in a while. Has he been released yet?'

Sherlock nodded.

'Good,' John said. 'I'm starting to like that guy, you know. Showed genuine concern when you were not well.'

'John, he's the suspect of a new murder.'

John stared at Sherlock in confusion. 'Joe wouldn't murder anyone. Not anymore, that is.'

'Yes, I know, John! But they haven't got other suspects, and frankly, they're right in that.' Sherlock seemed at a loss.

'But you do,' John stated. Sherlock's hand was still in his and he brushed the soft skin gently with his thumb.

'It can't be anyone else but Moriarty,' Sherlock spat. 'He's just playing with us again and he knows we've started to like Joe.'

These words might have seemed strange in John's ears, coming from Sherlock's mouth, but John knew exactly what Sherlock meant.

'Well, we can't let him have what he wants,' Sherlock muttered. He sprang up from the sofa, pulling John with him by his hand. His voice grew louder as a grin spread across his face. 'We will beat him John, we will beat him together. The game is once again on.'

* * *

**Oh God, I actually just realised that this is the last chapter and it's the shortest one. Perhaps we should've put more Johnlock in there...? Ah well, it was the only way we could think of to end the story. And it's been a magnificent ride, hasn't it? **

**We still can't believe that the story is over - again. We felt really weird while finishing writing it, it was our first story which has actually finished. And it's our first attempt at a fanfic, and I believe we managed quite well. The sequel will be so muh better, thanks to your tips and lovely feedback.**

**Now, we obviously have to talk about the sequel and the other fic I announced in my last AN. That one's up first. We haven't yet titled it, but we are about 30/40 odd pages along at this point. It will be about Sherlock, John and their son Hamish... And Moriarty. I won't say any more, so if you're interested, I hope it will be up here soon. Can't promise anything, but at least I'm not Moffat who keeps you waiting for over a year.  
Then there is the sequel to this - No name yet, but it will definitely be announced. We will pick up the storyline, and they will embark upon the case of the new Smiley Murders. There will be Johnlock, as ever, and as promised, they will go a bit further than teasing in it, but we're not sure yet how exactly we're going to describe this... BUT, very important, our school has started this week and we're in our second to last year. We will get very busy, and we might not update regulary. This applies to bith fics. We're very sorry in advance... :(**

**And last but not least, a massive thank you! We hadn't expected to get much feedback, but all the alerts and reviews made us very happy indeed. So thank you so much for reading, reviewing, favourising (if that's a word) and subscribing. And of course a special thanks to LondonFan who translates our story into German - the link is on our profile page. **

**Until the next time...  
xxx Hedgehog and Otter**


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